


Don't Get Many Travellers Round Here

by TheRightPurpleElves



Category: Warcraft III, World of Warcraft
Genre: Azeroth AU, F/F, Humour, Sorry Not Sorry, could also be known as 'elves arrive on the island inspired by britain and discover Rain', elves who can't elf outside of quel'thalas, going to be kind of sappy, i had a random idea and i went with it ok, i've put graphic violence but honestly not that much, lots of humour
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 10:38:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 44,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18737359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRightPurpleElves/pseuds/TheRightPurpleElves
Summary: Kul Tiras. The sleepy island kingdom united in its isolation, until the high elves of Quel'Thalas are swept upon its shores.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I really wanted to try my hand at a Kul Tiran Jaina who had never left the shores of her homeland. She's just as in love with women, but a little less worldly-wise. (This could also be known as my I Promise to Be Kind to Jaina fic. Idk.)

  “I do remember saying that we should water down the brandy,” Lord Admiral Daelin Proudmoore says, sloshing his snifter from one side of the glass to the other. “But if there’s brandy in this water, I sure as the depths can’t find it.”

 

  Across the room, Derek Proudmoore has already downed his glass in one. “Aye, well, Jaina was right. If the crew have none, then neither do we,” he says, voice far too jolly for one so sober. “We already sail for home waters, Papa, be patient.”

 

  Rubbing idly at his false eye, Daelin continues his perusal of the map spread over the waxy table. The day is waning; his head is pleasantly cloudy from fatigue, if not from the brandy. “Assuming we avoid the Crucible- and keep the crew happy- it’s only two nights’ sailing. What troubles me is we haven’t scouted the islands off Tiragarde Sound.” His free hand taps on the desk. “And haven’t for some weeks now.”

 

  “And yet they still sail to the mainland daily for goods from Tradewinds. As much as their pride would never admit it.” Picking and pulling at his hair in the grimy mirror, Derek shrugs one shoulder. “Bloody recluses would come howling to the gates of the Keep if they thought they were in any true danger.”

 

  Daelin hums. “As that may be,” he says, picking the charter of goods up off the desk, “I have another errand there. More specifically, with the Cleardawns-”

 

  “Ha! Now we get to the bottom of it!” Derek pokes his father in the ribs with his sheathed cutlass. “Jaina wants a horse and you don’t want to go to Norwington for it.”

 

  “ _Keep your voice down or I’ll have you keelhauled!_ Yes, Jaina wants a horse, and I’d rather she had a steady beast from them than one of Norwington’s mad mares. So I’d planned to take her along to pick one.”

 

  Derek simpers. “What my little girl wants, my little girl gets,” he squeaks, and ducks out of the cabin before Daelin can make good on his threat.

 

  “Jaina is a grown woman and an accomplished mage and it is a father’s prerogative to spoil his daughter,” he hollers after his son’s retreating back. “Now don’t you dare spoil the surprise for her!”

 

  The ship jerks a little to one side. Daelin glances out of the porthole, to the glimmering stretch of sea between the _Lady Katherine_ and Stormsong Valley, and takes a swig of the water skin hooked to his belt. The sound of laughter bubbles up from the crew’s bunk area. On pure impulse, Daelin reaches over and opens one section of the stained glass window covering the _Lady_ ’s hull to let the sea air wash over his cheeks and down into his lungs.

 

  “What colour will she pick?” he wonders aloud. “She’d look rather handsome on a palomino, don’t you think?” The ocean doesn’t offer much in the way of answers, as usual. “Ah, but imagine Jaina on a steed of pure black. A sight to stop Tradewinds in its tracks. White! I had imagined her on a white horse for her wedding-”

 

  “LORD ADMIRAL! LORD ADMIRAAAAAAAAL!”

 

  His cutlass is drawn and he’s thudding out onto the main deck before he can think twice. “What?” he hollers at the gaggle of sailors. “Is Jaina alright?”

 

  “I’m fine, Father,” comes Jaina’s voice from behind the motley gathering. “I need-”

 

  “Then what was so urgent that you scared me halfway to the Twisting Nether for it?” Daelin glares at the sailors. “Go on!”

 

  His first mate steps forwards, eyes wide, wringing his hands together. “Lord Admiral, your daughter- she’s caught a siren!” he hisses, and the sailors clustered around him nod frantically; Daelin cocks an eyebrow. “We think it’s injured, for it clung to a piece of wood to stay afloat!”

 

  “By the Tides. You think Jaina has caught a siren.” Daelin pinches the bridge of his nose. “A mythical creature that only a superstitious fool would believe in.”

 

  “Well, aye, Captain.”

 

  “Jaina doesn’t think Jaina’s caught a siren, for what it’s worth,” his daughter says.

 

  Daelin fixes his first mate with a glare. “How many sirens, in your many years of sailing, have you _actually_ come across, First Mate Sanders?”

 

  “This one!” Sanders nods emphatically. “She be the first!”

 

  Well, he didn’t select the man for his critical thinking skills. “Let me see this siren, then,” he says, and straightens his shoulders. “And how did you catch her, Jaina?”

 

  “With a net, Father. When she stopped singing, I couldn’t be sure if she was still conscious. I’ve asked you to take the sail off her, Sanders, she’s injured!”

 

  Daelin sighs. “She sang? Is that why you think she is a siren?”

 

  “Yes, Captain, she sang, like an angel from the heavens! And she sang in a tongue I’ve never heard!” Sanders motions to the pile of soggy spare sail behind him; Jaina’s hands are half beneath it, pressed against a pale sliver of a wrist, a sailor stood over it with her cutlass drawn. “We reckoned if we muffled her, she wouldn’t be able to guide us to our doom-”

 

  “She’s on board the ship, Sanders,” Jaina says. “How could she guide us to our doom when she’s on the damned ship?”

 

  Sanders blinks. “Good point, Lady Jaina.”

 

  Lips pressed into a thin line, Jaina motions to the sailor above her; she gulps audibly. “Now my father is here, would you finally lift the sail off her?”

 

  “Lady Jaina, are you-”

 

  “Yes, I’m sure!”

 

  The woman jerks her head down, mumbling a prayer to the Tidemother, and in one swift movement throws the sail to one side.

 

  Daelin’s whole body stiffens.

 

  The creature curled before Jaina is, indeed, a woman. Battered and bruised, she is a net-entangled pile of long, well-muscled limbs, clad in badly-tarnished mail armour and soaking wet leather underclothes. Her hair lies in briny clumps beside a delicately-boned face he can only think to belong to royalty or an aristocrat. And from beneath that mop of wet hair… protrude two impossibly long ears, ending in sharp tips, adorned with gold hoops and dangling filigree leaves.

 

  “Sanders, you _complete_ idiot,” he mutters, sinking to one knee. Jaina still has two fingers held to the woman’s wrist. “She’s not a siren. She’s an elf.”

 

  The crew jump backwards as one.

 

  “The magic addicts?” wails the woman still clinging to the wet sail. “The ones who tempted the Burning Legion to our world? They _swim_ now?”

 

  “I think I preferred her when she was a siren,” Sanders says.

 

  Gods above, sometimes Daelin wishes he could keelhaul the lot of them for letting their superstition overrule their wits. “Elves,” he says, with a patience he certainly doesn’t feel, “are not a sailing race. This one must be lost. Incredibly so.” He looks to Jaina, whose eyes are fixed on the woman’s chest, counting under her breath. “Where is the priest? Why have none of you bilge rats sent for the priest? Bring Sister Morwenna up here NOW!”

 

  The wet sail thwaps down onto the deck as the sailor takes the opportunity to flee, along with half the crew, to the safety of the bunks.

 

  “Morons,” Jaina mutters as Derek cautiously approaches, crouching beside his father. “She’s frozen cold, look how blue her lips are, Father. Find her a blanket, a coat, anything.”

 

  Derek struggles out of his sealskin overcoat as Daelin tugs his dagger from its sheath and slices at the netting to free her limbs. “Why would she be so far from the mainland, Father? Jaina? In four thousand years, the elves haven’t taken to the water.” He casts a gimlet-eyed look at the crew clustered behind them. “Siren indeed. I fear we need to inspect the schools in Boralus.”

 

  “As if any of this lot went to a school.” Daelin reaches out and carefully, so carefully, pats the elf’s cheek. “Ahoy there?”

 

  She remains silent.

 

  Derek wraps his coat around her, tucking it up to her sharp chin, and leans closer to one long ear. “Ahoy,” he says, a little louder. “Open your eyes, m’lady, I promise we won’t be throwing any more nets over you. Well, I won’t, anyway. I promise nothing of my little sister.”

 

  Nothing. Daelin swerves round, scowling at the gaggle of sailors gaping at them and the half-drowned elf. “You lot have better things to do. I know, because I told you to do them,” he growls. “Now get on with them!” The crew scatters like pigeons before a horse’s hooves. “Derek, find her a warm bed. Jaina, can you spare her some dry clothes?”

 

  “Of course,” they answer in unison, but Jaina doesn’t move, now rubbing both hands over the elf’s in her lap.

 

  “I’ll get them,” Derek says, starting to ease himself up-

 

  The elf’s eyes snap open, glowing grey-blue. “Shindu fallah’na,” she gargles, fumbling for her own back. “Ban’dinoriel!”

 

  “Hey, hey, easy now!” On pure instinct, Daelin gives her back a slap and the elf promptly hacks up a flurry of seawater onto the deck. “There now. There now. What’s your name, lass? Can you tell me your name?”

 

  The elf’s eyes flicker; Daelin shakes her as roughly as he dares. “Your name! What’s your name? By the Tides- Derek, get Morwenna up here!” Derek clatters away as Jaina tugs her sleeve over her hand and dries the briny water off the elf’s face. “What manner of elf are you? You speak my language?”

 

  She coughs feebly, spitting out the last remnants of seawater. “Yes,” she croaks, and his heart leaps. “I s-speak your language.” Her accent is lilting, a little staccato.

 

  “Good. The priest is coming- where are you from? What happened to you?” He shakes her again as her eyes droop. “Talk to me!”

 

  “Ship… caught in a storm.” Her voice is fading. “Had to flee Eversong. Anasterian… bought us time.” She drags in a long, shuddering breath and looks directly into his eyes. “An army of death.”

 

  “Death? What do you mean?” He hears footsteps thudding behind him, but he keeps his eyes fixed on the elf’s. “Keep talking to me. Where is this army?”

 

  One hand jerks forwards to grab Jaina’s bicep in a painfully-tight grip. “The undead m-marched in,” she gasps, chest heaving, “and slaughtered us- we fled to Sunsail Anchorage- made for Kalimdor but the ship was hit by lightning-”

 

  “You mean there are more of you?” Jaina wraps her other hand around the fingers clutching her arm. “How many?”

 

  The elf’s eyes flash. “Thousands,” she coughs, her fingers loosening in Jaina’s, “for our King sacrificed himself f-for us-” She breaks off as Morwenna begins her chanting, squatting beside the sprawled elf. “For us to run,” she whispers.

 

  “Breathe,” Morwenna says, hands glowing as they slide over the elf’s body. “How long were you in the water?”

 

  “Two nights.” Her eyes are closed. Her hand falls from Jaina’s arm; Jaina gently places it on the elf’s chest and covers it with the sealskin coat. “Can’t feel… Belore.”

 

  _Thousands. She said there are thousands of them, and one vessel lightning-damaged, in the most dangerous waters of Kul Tiras._ Daelin looks up, scans the horizon. Not a sail in sight, save for the two brigs beside the _Lady Katherine_.

 

  “I don’t see-” Derek starts, only for Jaina to clap her hand over his mouth.

 

  “Save your strength.” Daelin throws Derek a warning glare. “Rest now.”

 

  His words fall on unconscious ears.

 

  Still chanting, Morwenna gathers the sopping wet elf in her arms and slowly rises to her feet, letting fragments of the warped armour tumble free of the coat and clatter to the deck. “My thanks for volunteering your cabin, Crown Prince. I’ll make sure she’s looked after.”

 

  “I didn’t-” She’s already striding down the stairs, the elf’s limbs dangling from her hold. “By the Tides, I hate that woman. But my thanks for volunteering your cabin, Lady Jaina, I’ll make sure I’m looked after.”

 

  “You touch my bunk, brother dearest, and you’ll be scrubbing barnacles from the hull until you’re grey.”

 

  “Well, how do I sleep?”

 

  “Far too soundly, son of mine.” Daelin straightens, brushing the damp from his knees. “Sanders!” The squat man, still staring after Morwenna’s back, swerves and nearly takes his eye out in a hasty salute. “I want four search teams scouting the entire area for any elven vessels or any further elves. Send the brigs as well. And you over there- straight to the cook for some smoked fish and clean water. Take it to the Crown Prince’s cabin. Well, what are you waiting for? Go! Now!”

 

  As the deck descends into chaos around them, Jaina steps closer to her father. “She said there are thousands of them,” she murmurs. “Father… I’m worried. She only mentioned one ship. Surely they wouldn’t all pile on one vessel. Surely.”

 

  “They’re not a sailing race, though, are they?” Derek folds his arms. “Would they even build multiple vessels?”

 

  Daelin motions Sanders to his side. “We sail for home,” he says. “Directly. Past the Crucible. We have no time to waste on stupid superstitions,” he growls as Derek and Sanders both open their mouths. “We maintain a search for any ships not flying our colours. All spare hands will be lookouts for wreckage, elves, anything. And I swear on my eye, if anyone dares so much as think the word ‘siren’ aboard this vessel, they will be keelhauled. Twice. No, three times. Got it?”

 

  Sanders nods vigorously and turns back to his crew. “Nobody says the word ‘siren!’” he hollers, and four hands shoot up. “Except for me just then, you brine-soaked mackerel brains!”

 

-0-0-

 

  “Why, in the Tidemother’s name, have I just had to walk past sixteen of my crew all offering their coats and blankets to get to this cabin?”

 

  “Funny how quickly they get over their fear of elves when they see a pretty face,” Morwenna says. One hand is busily applying ointment to a slash through the elf’s arm, the other holding a thermometer in place in her mouth. “Poor creature hasn’t even had the chance to tell us her name, and they’ll be composing ballads about her.”

 

  Daelin bends closer, squinting at the wound. His good eye aches with exhaustion. “They’re back on lookout duty, they haven’t time to be warbling to the heavens- that’s not from debris. A sword inflicted that.”

 

  Morwenna hums in affirmation. “It’s not a fresh wound. None of them are. Oh, and another clue I found.” She reaches for the elf’s left hand, adorned with a single plain gold ring, and opens her first two fingers, running her thumb over the callouses on them. “She’s an archer.”

 

  Well, that would explain the impractical armour. He’d never let Jaina go out into the field with her belly out like that. Any fool could have her impaled before she’d had a chance to dodge. Ridiculous.

 

  “Lord Admiral,” Morwenna says slowly, putting the ointment down and sliding the thermometer out of her mouth; he watches as the skin begins to knit back together beneath the oily gloop. “The current that brought her to the ship. Now, I’m hoping beyond hope that whatever’s happened isn’t as bad as it sounds- but that current comes from the Crucible.” She glances in his direction. “And the waters of Stormsong claim their victims quickly.”

 

  He lets out a long breath and quickly stifles the yawn that threatens to follow it. “Let’s get her back to safety first, and find out what we can when she wakes.” Daelin inches closer, until his lips are nearly touching her earlobe, and lowers his voice, his eyes fixed on the elf’s silent face. “Any others like her are likely already dead. I won’t raise her hopes.”

 

  Morwenna nods, tucking the elf’s arm back beneath the blankets. “I need to rest now. She’s warmed up enough that I can leave her. If she wakes, or if she takes a turn for the worse, I am only a cabin away.”

 

  “Thank you.” Daelin, feeling a little foolish, offers her and the unconscious elf a courtesy bow. She gives him a nod and strides out; he follows only to thud chest-first into Jaina as she dodges in past the priest. “Your brother will be sleeping with the crew tonight,” he says, checking his eye hasn’t fallen out, “if you were hoping for a nightcap-”

 

  Jaina gently eases past, and Daelin watches in silence as his daughter kneels beside the sleeping woman. “I’m wide awake,” she says. “And you’re not. I will sit with her and watch over her.”

 

  “Jaina-”

 

  “Goodnight, Father. Don’t go dreaming of sirens now.” She offers her father a crooked grin and blows out two of the candles by the bedside, leaving one to offer a soft glow. “Go, rest. If she has need of you, I’ll come and find you.”

 

  Daelin’s face creases into a smile. Without another word, he presses a kiss to her crown and makes for his cabin.

 

-0-0-

 

  “Here you go, Sanders. A toast to the Lady Jaina for a good spot! She were easy to miss in the water there.”

 

  “Aye… until she opened her mouth. It was like nothing I’d ever heard before. Oh, I tell you, lads and lassies and others, I tell you- there are precious few who could rival that melody.”

 

  “Go on ‘en, Sanders! Sing us a little of this bewitching ditty! Maybe we’ll bring the Heartsbane running out of Drustvar and into a watery tomb!”

 

  “I sound like a strangled kraken when I sing. She sang, _anar ay la, anar ay la, bell oh re…_ ”

 

-0-0-

 

  “They must all be so bored,” Tandred chuckles. “No emergencies anywhere in Kul Tiras. How will my poor brother find some unsuspecting creature in distress and save them with a flourish of his sword? How will my dear sister calm the thrashing tides if there are none?”

 

  “I’m sure she had fun with the storm off Stormsong. Aptly named as ever.” Katherine, for her part, is looking forward to Jaina returning proudly on her new steed. “And I’m sure they’ll be returning with all due haste.”

 

  A multitude of books and scrolls open on the desk, and none of them read, Tandred lounges back to face his mother. “Jaina said she’d been looking at enchantments for sailing vessels. The sails could be a good place to start, though the tightness of the weave is a variable she’d have to factor in.”

 

  Katherine has her own fair share of scrolls and texts splayed across the surface before her, thoroughly ignored in favour of Jaina’s conjured shortbread biscuits. “We could standardise these things, if we had reason to. Do you think she could enchant a hat to produce these whenever I wish?” She reaches for another biscuit. “Butterscotch and chocolate chip varieties?”

 

  “It’ll be going on the list, Mother, I bet you.”

 

  “Jaina’s to-do list? Oh joy. I look forward to receiving it as I am carted away to my nursing home.”

 

  Tandred chuckles. “I can always leave a note on her bed. Butterscotch and raisin, you said?”

 

  “You do love to stir the pot. Come on, I’ll go cross-eyed with all this reading- we’re walking to Tradewinds for a dip in the harbour waters.”

 

  “Aww,” Tandred moans, going theatrically limp in his chair. “Mother, my legs, they’ve fallen right away- MOTHER!”

 

  Katherine swoops in to pick up son and chair in one go, swinging him around as Tandred screeches. “Are you an albatross, child? I’ll go deaf!” Relenting, she puts the chair back down and Tandred leaps up. “It’s a beautiful day. You can tell me more about your young lady friend in Hatherford on the way.”

 

  Tandred goes as red as the lobsters in the Bay. “Mother, I’ve told you many times, she is intelligent company and she and Jaina get on like a house on fire- Cyrus? What are you doing in our study?”

 

  “Elves!”

 

  “You’re doing elves,” Katherine says slowly. “Sit down. Get your breath. Explain.”

 

  Cyrus Crestfall’s face is ruddy with exertion, coat half-on and one boot coated to the ankle in mud; he sinks gratefully into Katherine’s chair, rubbing his nose with the back of his palm. “Lord Admiral, Lord Tandred, Mayor Roz came by gryphon desperate for Boralus’ aid and told us that Mariner’s Strand and Brennadam have been overrun by elves! Thousands upon thousands of them, she said, being sheltered as far away as Fort Daelin, all of them speaking of some tragedy that befell their homeland mere days ago- and an enormous sunken ship, five times the size of the _Lady Katherine_ , lying broken and burnt between the mainland and the Crucible that they say was struck by lightning as they fled an army of undeath-”

 

  “An army of what?” Tandred and Katherine chorus.

 

  “I think it was probably lost in translation.” Cyrus drags in a long breath and stands. “She asked if we could provide some supplies.”

 

  “But of course, these elves must be starving-”

 

  “Not them! The hunters of Brennadam haven’t caught so much as a rabbit since the elves made landfall. Turns out they’re quite good at this hunting malarkey.” Cyrus looks down at himself and quickly tucks his other arm into its sleeve. Tandred’s already stuffing his feet into his boots. “I sent Taelia to try to make sense of it before we arrive. Though knowing her, she’ll be four hours deep in stories about the mainland and know nothing of how they actually came to be here.”

 

  Fully booted, Tandred reaches for his jacket. “Mayor Roz does have a habit of exaggerating these things. Come on, Mother, let us go and meet these “thousands” of elves! Perhaps it’s a prank. I do like it when you fall for pranks, you lighten up a little, just on occasion.”

 

  Katherine is already striding out and down the corridor towards the stables, Cyrus hot on her heels. “I know you do. I must admit, I’m not sure what to make of this. Three gryphons saddled now, please!” And quietly, to Cyrus: “I know Roz has limited resources, but Brennadam is a big village- surely it has enough space for a few elves?”

 

  Cyrus wipes a hand over his face. “I suppose that depends what you mean by ‘a few elves’, Lord Admiral.”

 

-0-0-

 

  “That’s not a few elves,” Tandred murmurs.

 

  Everywhere. Quite literally everywhere Katherine turns, covering every inch of Brennadam, are elves of all shapes and sizes- pale skinned and dark skinned, hair of bright reds and blondes and raven blacks and indigo blues, sitting on the floor and leaning against walls and buildings and even each other. “By the Tides,” she breathes, head swivelling round, “this is… you were right, Cyrus, thousands. Tan, stay close, I’ll never find you again otherwise.”

 

  “Do they have a leader?” Tandred says faintly.

 

  A nearby indigo head shoots round, and the elf points to two women huddled together by the inn. “Lady Lireesa!” she shouts, waving wildly, and promptly lapses into a string of elegant syllables that somehow parts the crowd like a tidesage would the water of a bay and one of the elves makes straight for them, gently pulling the other along behind her.

 

  Katherine holds her hand out in the same moment the woman bangs her chest with her fist.

 

  “I… hello.” Katherine quickly brings her hand up to her own chest just as the elf frowns and proffers her own hand.

 

  Tandred quickly smothers his chuckle in his coat sleeve.

 

  The elf shuffles, clasping her hands behind her back instead. “I greet you,” she says, voice warm and melodic and lilted in a way Katherine can’t quite place. “My name is Lady Lireesa Windrunner, former Ranger-General of Quel’Thalas. I may speak on behalf of our Ki… Prince, Kael’thas, who is currently indisposed. My daughter Vereesa accompanies me.” The silver-haired elf behind her jerks her head down, face stained with tears. “And you are?”

 

  “Lord Admiral Katherine Proudmoore, and my son Tandred.” Tandred’s eyes are fixed on Vereesa, his smile gone. “Lady Windrunner, it looks as though you have brought half your kingdom to our shores?”

 

  Lireesa nods stiffly. “Not quite half. I’m afraid,” she says, her voice suddenly fragile, “that these elves represent what is left of the high elves of Silvermoon.” Her eyes meet Katherine’s, shimmering with unshed tears. “I will relate our tale to you as soon as we are in private. I’m afraid not all my people speak the humans’ language, but we are quick learners. Do you have a capital? Maybe… somewhere warm?”

 

  Katherine glances to Cyrus. “Of course,” she says softly. “Harbourmaster, fetch the magi to maintain some portals between here and Boralus. Lady Lireesa, and Vereesa, we can have some privacy in Roz’s office until they can take us to my residency.”

“Thank you for your kindness. You have our ultimate gratitude, and we will find a way to repay you. I also apologise for the local wildlife… my people like to hunt when they are stressed. Well. All the time, really.” Lireesa draws in a shaking breath. “I imagine this will be an inquiry in vain, Lady Proudmoore. When our ship was hit-” she motions to the carcass of a vessel so enormous, its smouldering hull is visible towering over the hills around the village- “my middle daughter fell over the side of the ship. I’ve been trying to find her but… I fear she wasn’t a strong enough swimmer to fight the tide and…”

 

  “I will have enquiries sent out immediately,” Katherine says, evenly. Too evenly, even for her own ears. _I could not be so composed if Jaina was missing._ “Come with me and we’ll begin spreading the word.”

 

  She catches Tandred’s eye again. Neither of them have to say anything, not when even the tidesages refuse to step foot in these waters.

 

  “Then after you,” Lady Lireesa says, and motions with a trembling hand to the inn.


	2. Chapter 2

  _300 years prior_

 

  “An island state in famine secedes from its allies with immediate effect,” Lireesa says. The hand on Sylvanas’s shoulder is firm and warm. “Are we sure Kul Tiras has not fallen foul of a coup? The number of houses vying for political control is ridiculous, even by Thalassian standards.”

 

  Standing to her mother’s hip height, clad in stiff new leathers, Sylvanas remains silent and still under the gazes of Silvermoon’s nobles. Her father, sat a few steps from the royal seat, is deep in a harried conversation with a senior Magister; he forces his lips into a smile the moment his eyes meet hers, but his ears are flat and tense against his head. Some of the elves around him are smirking, whispering of the foolishness of the small-ears. Others sit quietly, faces pinched and mouths downturned.

 

  “I can assure you that the decision was made by House Waycrest,” Anasterian says. He drums his fingers on the arm of his throne, glancing to his son, who shrugs. “Their ships left Sunsail this morning without bothering the Harbour Guard for an escort, and those of House Proudmoore followed them. Lordaeron reports the same thing.” He straightens his spine a little. “But I summoned you here for a more acute line of questioning. What of those Kul Tirans you were training, Lireesa? The Farstriders to be?”

 

  Lireesa’s grip tightens to the point of pain, but Sylvanas does not flinch. “My trainees left with the members of the Waycrest Guard who rode to the training range that morning. They packed their possessions as I took the elven Farstriders for their morning meal.”

 

  “How rude,” a voice behind her sighs.

 

  “As per the orders they were given.” Lireesa’s voice is cold. “Or do you think the Guard’s sudden interest in archery training was a coincidence, Lord Sanguinar?”

 

  “Perhaps,” Anasterian says, his voice gentle even as he shoots Lord Sanguinar a glare, “that is for the best, Lireesa. After all, we have many young elves vying to join the Farstriders. Elves whose ancestors served under Talanas, even.”

 

  “Perhaps,” Lireesa says through gritted teeth, “and if you are so sure of that, you could prompt them to approach me. I am hardly overwhelmed with applications. Sylvanas may be the only elf of her year’s intake at this rate.”

 

  “If you were to make the entrance exams more palatable,” a thin-faced man interjects, his ears jingling with gold and jewels, “more would flock to join. We do not all take naturally to running around in the mud and the cold, Lady Windrunner.”

 

  “Unfortunately, Lord Capernian, that is exactly what Farstriders do. The hint is in the name. We do a lot of striding, far away. And striding far away does tend to involve the mud and the cold.”

 

  Sneering, Lord Capernian’s eyes flick to Sylvanas. “That helpful lesson aside, _Lady_ Windrunner, these lands have ever best been defended by high elves. Your own heritage proves as such.”

 

  “My lineage is not the issue at hand,” Lireesa snaps. “There is nothing good about losing staunch defenders midway through their training.”

 

  Capernian waves a hand. “Staunch may not be the word. My thoughts leaned more to… stocky.”

 

  The loudest burst of laughter comes from a cluster of elves in luxury mageweave. Lireesa shoots them a look. “Anything to add to this conversation, House Drathir?”

 

  “I don’t believe so,” an elf smirks in return, proffering a pouch of fine chocolates to the young elf on the lap of the woman beside him. “We should have guessed the humans would be… the wobbly sort. After all, their ears are of- little- use for balancing.”

 

  Sniggers once again.

 

  “Silence,” Anasterian sighs, and the noise dies immediately. “I’ve no reason not to trust a message brought directly from House Waycrest. It is peculiar, Ranger-General. Peculiar indeed. It smacks of inexperienced leadership and you may be right in thinking of a struggle for power. But we will not interfere with their decision, however poor and ill-informed we may believe it to be.” His eyes fall to Sylvanas. “And at any rate, the burden of reaching out would not be yours, Ranger-General, not with your duties and your prodigy.”

 

  He leans forwards, a smile quirking at his lips. “What do you think, Ranger in Training? Place yourself on my throne for a moment. What would you do?”

 

  Chuckling once again sounds from across the room, as every eye turns to Sylvanas.

 

  “Go on,” Anasterian urges. “Tell us how it should be done.”

 

  Sylvanas, eyes wide, shuffles a little. Lireesa’s fingers gently draw her hair back from her face. “I hope you know what you’ve let yourself in for, your Majesty,” she says. “She’s already bossing my Farstriders about.”

 

  “And her father,” Vogel Windrunner says, poker-faced, to laughter from the elves around him. “I thought it amusing too, until I found myself cleaning her hawkstrider’s stable while she sat eating my lunch.”

 

  Blushing at the fresh burst of chuckles, Sylvanas turns back to Anasterian; the king reclines with a lazy smile on his face as he motions for her to speak. Prince Kael’thas shushes the court with great theatrical flaps of his arms until the room is completely silent.

 

  “I would send them food,” Sylvanas says.

 

  “Would you?” Anasterian raises an eyebrow as the nobles around him splutter. Vogel Windrunner’s face bursts into an enormous grin. “And what would you aim to achieve by doing that, Ranger in Training?”

 

  “To demonstrate how allegiances can be a good thing. You can tell them what allegiance can provide, without acting, or you can show them what allegiance can provide and thus solve their problem.” What was it her Ann’da said? “People remember deeds, not words.”

 

  “Lady Lireesa,” one of the Drathirs laughs. It’s not a pleasant sound. “Perhaps it is time for you to enrol Sylvanas in Falthrien Academy with us. I am sure she is bright, but her political education seems to be a little behind-”

 

  “Magister Drathir, if you wish to address the current speaker, then you address the Ranger in Training.” Anasterian’s voice cuts through the noise like a blade through butter. “It is the height of bad manners to address someone else when the Ranger in Training has been given the floor.”

 

  When the Magister says nothing, he continues. “So, Ranger in Training. We have a kingdom to feed as well. How do you propose we fund this gift of yours?”

 

  Sylvanas glances to her mother.

 

  “Go ahead,” Lireesa says.

 

  “Your Majesty, please, she’s eleven summers old, she has never spoken in public before,” Vogel protests, halfway up out of his seat, but Anasterian waves for him to sit back down.

 

  “I…” Sylvanas licks lips that are suddenly dry. “I would, by a very small degree, increase the taxation of the richer houses within Silvermoon,” she finishes in a rush as the court fills with muttering and barely-concealed jeering.

 

  “Lireesa!” cries a voice from the gaggle of Theron family members. “It is a good thing your family takes such little interest in such affairs!”

 

  “You’re right,” Lireesa growls. “My daughter is too talented to spend her life bartering for influence over fellow fools as Quel’Thalas burns.”

 

  “Thank you, Lady Windrunner. That’s enough.” Anasterian glances to his son, and Sylvanas’s ears droop at the sight of Kael’thas chuckling with his advisors. “And I thank you, Sylvanas. No doubt when you are older, you will be a valuable asset to the court of Silvermoon.”

 

  Hands take hers, and Sylvanas finds herself and her mother being directed out of the room by her father. “Do not pay them heed, Lady Moon,” he says gently, “and remember that they don’t want the same thing you do. You shouldn’t try to bang your head against an unbreachable wall.”

 

  “Prince Kael’thas laughed at me,” she mumbles.

 

  Vogel chuckles, deep in his throat. “He did no such thing. He thought the idea had merit.”

 

  “Did he?” Lireesa’s voice is sharp. “In honesty?”

 

  “Kael’thas may not be looking to tear the civic fabric of Silvermoon asunder, but he’s no fool. And more than a few agree with him.” Despite the bags under his eyes and his tense shoulders, Vogel’s smile is soft and proud. “My daughter’s first address of the royal court! It went a lot better than your big sister’s, she just threw up over the mageweave rug. Oh, and my leg, but your mother cared less about my trousers. Ranger-General, I suddenly have an insatiable taste for ice cream.”

 

  Lireesa sighs theatrically. There is a slight tremble in the hand that wraps around Sylvanas’s. “Again?”

 

  “It’s awful! And my daughter will have to escort me to ensure I do not eat every scoop in-”

 

  Magister Drathir’s shoulder knocks into his, sending him staggering backwards. “I do apologise, Vogel,” the Magister says, looking down at Sylvanas. “I didn’t see you there.”

 

  “I know a good optometrist,” Vogel snaps back.

 

  Drathir smiles lazily, eyes still on Sylvanas. “So do I, Lord Windrunner. I only wanted to say that in spite of the ludicrous nature of her “solution”, your daughter’s logic does show few faults. It’s not too late to consider apprenticing her to a Magister in Falthrien, she would pass the entry exams.”

 

  “I will consider it,” Lireesa says.

 

  Drathir frowns. “You will?”

 

  “Yes. One moment.” Lireesa looks up at the ceiling, inhales, exhales, and looks back down at him. “Well, I’ve considered it, and I’ve concluded I would rather dip myself in honey and seat myself naked on a wasp’s nest than let my daughter be tutored by your ilk.”

 

  Vogel barks with laughter; cheeks flushing bright red, Drathir bares his fangs. “How is Alleria’s beau? She must have at least another five years before he grows grey and wrinkles to a prune!”

 

  Behind him, Sylvanas glimpses the King and Prince Kael’thas exiting the court, flanked by their nobles.

 

  “Five?” Lireesa rolls her eyes. “Clearly you would not be qualified to teach Sylvanas to count.”

 

  “Perhaps you are thinking of sending her to Lordaeron? She is a Windrunner, after all. She would be right at home shooting unmoving dummies and scrabbling around in the dirt,” Drathir hisses.

 

  The King and his entourage turn the corner, starting to walk towards the little group. Sylvanas clasps her hands behind her back and pinches the inside of her wrist hard enough to make her eyes water.

 

  “It’s almost endearing how you deign to speak of Lordaeron, Drathir. We know you have never ventured beyond Ban’dinoriel. Is it in case you find someone who can fight?”

 

  “This from a ‘warrior’ who hides in the treelines?”

 

  Taking a deep breath, Sylvanas looks up at Drathir and bursts into noisy tears.

 

  Every head in the King’s entourage immediately turns towards her; Drathir, mouth open to launch another insult, startles backwards. “Don’t speak to my Minn’da so!” she cries, clinging to her father’s leg. “Why would you say such cruel things! Minn’da, I want him to go away, I want to go h-home…”

 

  Within seconds they are flocked by elves cooing and fussing over her, no fewer than six handkerchiefs dabbing at her cheeks and nose. Ensuring her lip continues to quiver, forehead pressed against Vogel’s leg, she looks up just far enough to glimpse the Magister backing hastily away.

 

  “I- I didn’t- wasn’t trying to upset her- that is to say-”

 

  “There now,” Lireesa soothes, rubbing her back. “Thank you for your concern, friends. Perhaps a portal back to the Spire. My dalah’surfal needs to rest.”

 

  “Magister Drathir,” Prince Kael’thas says, voice low and cool. “Accompany me to the eastern wing.”

 

  “You are very kind, thank you,” Vogel says to the mage ushering them through a portal to the Spire.

 

  The moment they land on familiar green grass and the portal fizzles shut, Sylvanas swerves round. “Did I embarrass him enough?” she demands, stomach clenched with anxiety. “Should I have said-”

 

  “Hush, you little trickster. That was brilliant.” Lireesa’s shoulders are shaking with laughter. “Wait until I tell Alleria! She’ll laugh herself sick.”

 

  Vogel, wiping tears from his own cheeks, dips into his pocket and holds out a pouch of fine chocolates. “Magister Drathir should really secure his possessions better,” he grins. “Especially the tasty ones.”

 

  “She cannot have any with alcohol! I must try them first!” Lireesa snatches one before he can dart away. “Mm, ravenberry. Oh, this could be- snapvine watermelon?”

 

  But even as her hands are filled with Silvermoon’s best chocolate, even as her parents burst through the front door and dive on her elder sister to gasp out their tale through bursts of laughter, Sylvanas Windrunner cannot tear her thoughts from the court of Silvermoon and its sneering nobles.

 

  Kul Tiras secedes. All communication vanishes. Sylvanas grows, in size and in wisdom, and as the political sphere of the Alliance grows murkier and relations sour to breaking point, she denounces her childish optimism and vows to protect her own above all others.

 

-0-0-

 

  _300 years later, in the waters of Kul Tiras_

 

  “Brother Pike!”

 

  Before he can even plant both boots on the deck of the _Lady Katherine_ , Pike finds himself surrounded by the crew. “Erm, good evening, everyone,” he says, shifting from one foot to the other. “My missive sounded rather urgent. Did something come up?”

 

  “Aye, an elf,” the first mate says, pointing to a lumpy pile of wet sail on the deck.

 

  Pike blinks. “An elf came up,” he says, slowly. “You’ll have to talk me through this one.”

 

  “Now, she didn’t exactly _come up,_ ” the bosun says. “She sort of- flopped, onto the deck. I mean, she couldn’t really do that much with how Lady Jaina had her all tangled up. Cook said it was a pity she couldn’t catch any fish with her elf.”

 

  “I did think it was an icecrest seal at first,” someone else chips in. “An icecrest seal in full armour. With hair. And breasts.”

 

  And, as everyone turns to face him: “What? Sanders thought she was a bloody siren!”

 

  “I think I’ve an inkling who’s been at the Lord Admiral’s whisky, Brother,” the bosun says.

 

  “Alright, go back a minute.” Pike holds up a hand. “You mean you actually have an elf on board, that Jaina rescued from the ocean?”

 

  “Aye, going by the ears,” the first mate says. “Or a seal with breasts, apparently. By the Tidemother, Jones, you need spectacles.”

 

  “Well, which sort of elf? High elf, night elf?”

 

  The first mate’s face falls. “By the Tidemother, there’s more than one kind? Next you’ll be telling us they’re in Kalimdor, too.”

 

  Pike pinches the bridge of his nose. “How close did you sail to the mainland?”

 

  “No closer’n usual.”

 

  “Oh, I see. So she came from a boat.”

 

  “Well, driftwood would’ve been a generous description of it, to be honest, Brother- oh! Aye, she said she’d been on a vessel, at some point after the Lady Jaina caught her.”

 

  “She broke Marcus’s record for the biggest catch of the voyage,” a woman to the back says. “It was the ears what did it.”

 

  Pike takes a deep breath. “What,” he says, striving to keep his voice calm, “does she look like?”

 

  “Beautiful,” Sanders says.

 

  “Long ears,” someone else chimes in.

 

  “We’d got that bit covered, Damien. Anyway, Brother, she’s got a nice big pair of- _oof!_ I was going to say eyes! Honest!”

 

  “Would you all shut up before I summon a wave and send you for a swim?”

 

  Thank goodness for the Lady Jaina, Pike sighs as the Lord Admiral’s daughter clambers up onto the deck, a bloodied poultice still held in one hand. “You’d best come down below deck with me, Brother. Father’s just gone to bed. I’m watching over our guest.”

 

  “Gladly.”

 

  Jaina flicks a finger; the sailor busily demonstrating the size of the elf’s ‘eyes’ shrieks as his feet are frozen to the deck. “Twenty jumping jacks and you can go free.” And she turns and thuds back down towards the Crown Prince’s cabin, Pike following behind her.

 

  “Little help?” he hears the sailor plead behind him.

 

-0-0-

 

  “Lady Windrunner?”

 

  Lireesa’s head shoots up. Katherine Proudmoore offers her a cup of tea and a careful smile as she lowers herself into an easy chair beside the sleeping Vereesa. “Any news of my Sylvanas?” she croaks, and the thrill of hope crashes back down as Katherine shakes her head.

 

  “I’m sorry.” Her warm, rugged hand comes to rest on Lireesa’s shoulder. “We will keep looking.”

 

  Lireesa swallows hard. Carefully places the tea on the desk, hands trembling so hard it slops over onto her lap. “When my husband passed away,” she whispers, not trusting herself to raise her voice, “we each took one of his favourite pieces of jewellery. Sylvanas took a gold ring he wore on his smallest finger.” She wipes her face roughly. “She found it very useful when she wished to pretend to be married, and when she needed to punch someone.”

 

  Katherine huffs a soft little laugh. “A pragmatic woman,” she murmurs.

 

  “I have nothing of hers.” The tears are falling thick and fast now. “Nothing at all. The undead have taken what the ocean didn’t. I have nothing to give my daughters or their brother to hold to their hearts and think of their Lady Moon.”

 

  Lireesa clenches her fists. Katherine will soon be welcoming her daughter home from her voyage. She will draw her into a hug before she goes to sleep, will watch her flourish and laugh and dance. But she? Lireesa will never again hear Sylvanas singing as she ambles down the hallway. Never again watch her fly along the treeline, her arms a blur of loosing arrows. Never chide her for teasing Vereesa or tickle her cheek just to see a smile on that serious face. The urge for revenge rises in her chest, suffocating her, until all she can see is red-

 

  “Lady Katherine?” Mayor Roz stands awkwardly in the doorway, cradling her own mug of tea. “Nothing too important. Just to let you know that Brother Pike was summoned to your husband’s fleet by messenger pigeon and is no longer in Brennadam.”

 

  “Did the pigeon’s letter say what for?”

 

  “First Mate Sanders wrote it, so to be perfectly honest, we’re not even sure we’ve sent the right tidesage.” Roz attempts a smile, but it falters on its way to her mouth. “And I’ve sent a team of Thornspeakers to the Crucible, to check for any elves who washed up there.”

 

  “Perhaps Alleria and Lirath will have found her by now,” Lireesa mumbles, almost to herself.

 

  She doesn’t miss Katherine wiping a tear from her eye as Roz quietly takes her leave.

 

-0-0-

 

  “Congratulations,” Brother Pike says. “It’s an elf.”

 

  Jaina rolls her eyes. “We’ll give her a complex if she ever finds out Jones thought she was a seal with armour.” In one smooth movement, she descends back onto the stool carefully frozen to the floor and presses the poultice back to the bloody lump on the back of the elf’s head. “Which kind? High elf, night elf?”

 

  “High elf. I think.” The Brother leans closer. “There’s seaweed behind her ear.”

 

  “I know. Every time I try to get it out-” Jaina reaches for it and the ear flicks violently away. “I don’t want to hurt her. It seems like her ears are very sensitive.”

 

  “Has she said anything?”

 

  Jaina opens her mouth to speak, only for her father’s voice to interrupt. “She speaks our language,” Daelin says, clad in ruffled sleep clothes and a dressing gown thicker than half of his crew. “She told us she’d been in the sea for two nights, that she’d fallen from a ship struck by lightning… that there were thousands of elves sailing with her…”

 

  “But that was about it,” Jaina interrupts, shooting her father a look. The army of undeath is not something she wants to put a voice to yet. Perhaps the elves’ word for ‘undeath’ translates to ‘cupcakes’ or something similarly innocuous. “You haven’t heard of an influx of elves, Brother Pike? I imagine you would have.”

 

  “I haven’t, but I’ve been in Drustvar with Marshal Cleardawn. I wish I could lie and say we’ve been rushing from glorious battle to glorious battle with the Heartsbane, but the highlight of the trip was rounding up sheep at Teller’s Farm after someone’s eagle got bored and scared them witless with a “flying” scarecrow-”

 

  The elf moans softly in the back of her throat.

 

  “Hello? Talk to me!” Jaina drops the poultice and grabs the elf’s hand. “Can you hear me?”

 

  Daelin bolts forwards as the elf’s eyes begin to flutter. “Wake up, good lady,” he murmurs, leaning over Jaina. “We’ve food and water for you. Don’t fret, we’re friends.” With the hand not on Jaina’s shoulder, he scrabbles for the water skin on the side table.

 

  Jaina keeps her gaze fixed on the woman’s face even as she feels long, strong fingers tighten around hers. “My name’s Jaina,” she says softly. “I’m the one who pulled you from the sea. Don’t be afraid. I lost a sword fight with myself once. The worst part is, the sword was foam.”

 

  And- _thank the Tides, thank the Tidemother-_ the elf’s mouth curls into a tiny smile.

 

  “Oh now, come on, Jaina,” her father sighs theatrically. “At least when I lost a swordfight with myself, I used a wooden sword and concussed myself. Never do a job half-heartedly.”

 

  The little grin widens.

 

  Brother Pike clears his throat, shuffling from foot to foot. “Erm… ishnu-dal-dieb,” he says. “What was it… oh right- Elune adore?”

 

  The elf’s forehead creases into a frown.

 

  “Bugger. Wrong elves.” Pike rubs a hand over his head.

 

  “Well, do the other ones, then,” Jaina says.

 

  “I thought that was the other ones.”

 

  Her father opens his mouth-

 

  “Anu belore dela’na,” mumbles the elf through dry, cracked lips. “But I commend you for trying.”

 

  Jaina snatches the water skin from her father’s hand and presses it against the elf’s mouth. “Here. It’s clean water. Do you need to sit up?”

 

  She’s already fumbling to push herself up on one arm, her other hand still in Jaina’s; Daelin rushes to help her, hands gently and firmly pulling her upright. “Thank you,” she whispers, and drains the water skin in five desperate gulps. “Is there more?”

 

  With a quick hand movement, Jaina has the refilled water skin back in the elf’s hand, only to find it thrust back barely ten seconds later.

 

  “No more,” Daelin says quickly. “You’ll make yourself sick. Sip at it, if you must.”

 

  The elf’s eyes fall open. Even as Jaina watches, their silvery-blue glow intensifies, swerving from her to her father to Brother Pike and back to Jaina, crinkled with a faint smile.

 

  “Thank you,” she croaks. “For pulling me from the water.” She lifts Jaina’s hand to her mouth and kisses the back of her palm. “My name is Sylvanas Windrunner. I would ask the full name of my saviour.”

 

  Though her lips are rough and dry, the skin brushing against Jaina’s fingers is soft. “Jaina Proudmoore,” she says, gently. “And you’re very welcome. I promise, no more fishing nets will be involved as long as you don’t go for another swim _._ ”

 

  The elf- Sylvanas- huffs another little smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I cannot say it was not effective,” she says, reaching behind her ear and flicking the lump of seaweed out.

 

  Daelin leans forwards again. “Miss Windrunner,” he starts, rubbing his beard. “My name is Lord Admiral Daelin Proudmoore, and you find yourself aboard the flagship of the Proudmoore Admiralty, the _Lady Katherine_. I appreciate you’ve had quite the experience, and a nice bang to your head, but I must ask how you found yourself floating around these waters… we’re quite a way from the Eastern Kingdoms, after all.”

 

  “Of course, as soon as I recall- oh!” Jaina jumps as the hand in hers jerks out and to Sylvanas’s throat, fumbling frantically. “My pendant- anar’alah, no, no-”

 

  “This one?” They all swerve to Derek stood in the doorway, holding a blue necklace aloft. When Jaina looks back, a grin on her face, Sylvanas’s eyes are shimmering. “Thought I’d get it cleaned up for you. Welcome to my cabin, by the way. Sorry it’s a bit messy, we had an unexpected guest.”

 

  “ _Derek,_ ” Jaina growls, but Sylvanas is beaming through her tears, fumbling to fasten it back around her neck the moment Derek drops it into her hand. “This is Sylvanas Windrunner. Sylvanas, my arse of a brother, Derek.”

 

  “Glad to meet you. My brother is worse,” Sylvanas says, with a quirk of her lip.

 

  Instinctively, Jaina reaches for the hand not still curled around the pendant. “Tell us where… where you fell overboard,” she starts. _Tread carefully, Jaina, lest she go into shellshock._ “What do you remember?”

 

  Sylvanas frowns, picking feverishly at the filigree around the pendant. “It was dark,” she says haltingly. “Only the lightning gave us any clue. I remember a temple of carved tentacles. Some people were already getting the landing boats readied when the lightning struck the ship.”

 

  Jaina’s stomach sinks, even as she carefully schools her face into neutrality. _Of all the waters they could have sunk in, they chose to sink off Stormsong Valley-_

“SANDERS!” Daelin’s roar makes them all jump. “SANDERS! Get your useless arse down here right now!”

 

  Footsteps thud down the steps outside and Sanders skids into the room, bouncing off the opposite wall and saluting Brother Pike. “Yes, Lord Admiral?” he pants. “Oh. Wrong Lord Admiral. Sorry, Lord Admiral.” He turns on his heel and salutes Derek.

 

  “Try that one,” Derek says, pointing to his father.

 

  A little gasp comes from the hammock. Jaina’s gut clenches and she’s already reaching for her handkerchief when she realises Sylvanas is laughing, a belly laugh that brings a grin out on Jaina’s face too. “And you are the same gentleman who believed me to be a siren?” Her glowing eyes are bright with mirth.

 

  Sanders flushes bright red. “I- well, you see, my Lady, the problem is, I’d never seen a s-siren before,” he stammers. “I couldn’t be quite sure you weren’t one.”

 

  “You’ll have to excuse Sanders,” Daelin mutters. “He can’t even say he was kicked in the head by a horse. That was his sister, and she’s a damn sight smarter than he is.”

 

  Sylvanas glances to Daelin. “I’m afraid sirens’ song is a lot louder than mine,” she says, “and they are much more beautiful than I. And they swim better.”

 

  “Wait, what?” Sanders scratches his eyebrow. “How would you know, m’lady?”

 

  “They inhabit the waters around Quel’Thalas.”

 

  There’s a moment of silence.

 

  “HA! I knew it!” Sanders cries, jumping up and down like a child at Winter’s Veil. Jaina drops her head into the hand not holding Sylvanas’s. “See? They _do_ exist! I told you, Lord Admiral! I told you-”

 

  “You were still wrong,” Daelin sighs. “Just go and tell the bosun to make straight for Mariner’s Row, would you?”

 

  “Aye, Lord Admiral!” Grinning from ear to ear, Sanders bows deeply to Sylvanas and runs out of the room.

 

  “I suppose I should take it as a compliment,” Sylvanas says, rubbing her recently healed arm. “But there are things I’d rather be compared to besides naga.”

 

  _Whatever those are._ Jaina opens her mouth only to find her father already talking.

 

  “Miss Windrunner,” Daelin starts, carefully. “I appreciate you are feeling a little better. I need to ask you to elaborate on a few of the things you said after we pulled you from the water… and maybe we’ll start with how many of you were on the ship escaping this army of death.”

 

  Sylvanas goes very still.

 

  Jaina, glancing between her and Derek, hurriedly fills the silence. “It’s alright, Sylvanas. You can rest a little longer if you need to. My father’s questions are not urgent.”

 

  “I- remember my mother said thousands,” Sylvanas says, a little breathlessly. “Pitiful few. When King Anasterian told us to run, he had already marched through so much of Quel’Thalas, already slaughtered… so many…”

 

  “Who is he?” Daelin cranes closer. “Who slaughtered so many?”

 

  “Father, that’s _enough,_ ” Jaina hisses.

 

  A teary gaze turns to her. “Prince Arthas Menethil,” Sylvanas croaks, a single drop spilling over her cheek. “The death knight. I remember that we stalled him at Fairbreeze.” Her eyes aren’t focussed on Jaina anymore. “We could not fight any more. My King- ordered me to take my rangers and flee- we heard the screams as…”

 

  Jaina grabs another blanket and covers Sylvanas in it as she shivers violently. “That’s enough,” she declares, elbowing her father backwards. “You can all get some sleep now, and I will stay with Miss Sylvanas-”

 

  “Are you sure?” Daelin glances between Jaina and Derek, a deep frown on his face. “I think it would be best if-”

 

  “You buggered off? Yes, Father. It would.” Jaina winces as the fingers around hers tighten to the point of pain. “Go, I will comfort her.”

 

  And, when they don’t move: “Any man who does not leave this cabin within the next fifteen seconds will find themselves going for a nice midnight swim.”

 

  Derek is gone in a flash, Pike after him.

 

  Daelin sighs. “Find me if you need my help, then.”

 

  “Thank you.”

 

  He eases himself to his feet and kisses the crown of her head. “Proud of you, Jaina,” he says, and thuds out towards his own cabin.

 

  She might have a little more time to dwell on the compliment if she weren’t already wrapping Sylvanas in a hug, a hug that Sylvanas returns almost frantically. “My apologies,” she mumbles into the new damp patch on Jaina’s shoulder, “I am usually more composed than this-”

 

  “I understand,” Jaina murmurs. “It’s alright.” Instinctively, she rubs Sylvanas’s back. The porthole flares with light as someone, hopefully not Sanders, sends a burst of arcane energy into the magelight on the deck. She keeps rubbing, soothing, humming under her breath, anything she can think of until the shivering dies down a little and the vice grip on her arm falls away.

 

  Eventually, she speaks, voice quiet alongside the slapping of waves on the hull. “I hope I’m not hurting your head like this? I have a poultice with healer’s herbs that may still provide some relief.”

 

  “I have a thick skull.”

 

  “Probably just as well, aboard this ship.” A joke will distract her, surely? “I’m sorry to have to say it, but Sanders isn’t even the worst. Twice I’ve been asked why priests don’t float away if they use the Light too much.”

 

  Sylvanas hiccupping is her only answer, but the arms around Jaina’s waist loosen just a little.

 

  Footsteps clatter down the stairs. “LORD ADMIRAL! LORD ADMIRAAAAAAAL!”

 

  “What?” Daelin yells. “What now? Can a man not have a nightcap in peace? There isn’t even any bloody brandy in it! This is just cruel now!”

 

  “WRECK AHOY OFF MARINER’S ROW, LORD ADMIRAL!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I know sirens are native to Kul Tiras (Tiragarde Sound, anyway) in BfA. But that wasn’t as funny. Sorry, canon. I just wanted Sanders to have his moment.  
> 2) My brother asked me if the ‘wrong elves’ part is a reference to my username. Lol, I’m not that smart. But it made me giggle.  
> 3) Never written child Sylvanas before- but I have read some amazing pieces here (In The Mourning is the name that springs to mind, go read it if you haven't already, it's incredible). So here, I have had a bash at it. I'll be under my rock in the corner.
> 
> Thank you so much for all the wonderful comments on the first chapter! I was so thrilled to receive them. Any and all feedback is enormously appreciated, and thank you for reading this far :D
> 
> Also useless_lesbean: sorry for stringing you along!! Turns out I just want Sylvanas to be happy. (Well, mostly.) :3


	3. Chapter 3

  “I haven’t seen a saurolisk in three days,” Mayor Roz says, idly swinging her longsword. “I don’t care what the Lord Admiral says, we’re keeping the elves.”

 

  She looks round to Town Guard Morwell, whose gaze is fixed on the distant gleam of the Brennadam inn. “Definitely,” she says in a breathy voice. “Definitely keeping them.”

 

  “I mean, the speed with which they shoot-! Imagine if we had them on our side against the Heartsbane or the Drust. Tides, we’d be unstoppable.”

 

  “Aye,” Morwell sighs.

 

  “And they sail too. Could use some lessons on shipbuilding- Dorian would set them straight, I’ve no doubt. Sure the Harbour Guard will want to poach ‘em before poor little Brennadam gets so much as a look in.”

 

  “Mm.”

 

  “I’ve heard they eat their young, too. Scoop out the entrails with their bare hands.”

 

  “Yeah,” Morwell murmurs.

 

  “Morwell! By the Tidemother! If you like the look of her that much, go and talk to her! She’s an elf, not a hydra.”

 

  “I can’t.” Morwell sighs heavily. “She doesn’t speak our language. The only way I can talk to her is with bloody hand gestures.” Her face falls. “If she ever looks at me that long.”

 

  “Don’t be daft. I can think of-”

 

  They both freeze at the faintest rustle of leaves.

 

  “This close to Brennadam,” she mouths, even as Morwell silently and swiftly dodges behind a rock, halberd hefted and ready. “The nerve of poachers nowadays-!"

 

  Taking a deep breath, Roz lifts her shield and creeps forwards-

 

  Something dives at her and she bashes it hard enough to send it reeling backwards as another leaps from the undergrowth and Morwell lunges to trip it with the halberd’s pole, sending it clattering into a clumsy heap on top of its companion.

 

  “Poachers?” Roz squints at the sprawled figures. “Ashvane?”

 

  “Whichever one will get me some ice for my nose,” groans a distinctly elven voice.

 

  “By the Tidemother. What are you doing this late at night?” Motioning Morwell forwards, Roz grabs the elf on top and hauls him upright. “You. Why did you try to ambush us?”

 

  “Believe it or not,” the first elf says thickly, still on the floor, “we thought you were trying to ambush _us._ ”

 

  Roz puts her hands on her hips. “Well, now that we’ve all been thoroughly ambushed, maybe you could tell us your names?”

 

  The second elf stretches out the hand not rubbing his shin. “Lirath Windrunner. And my sister Alleria.” The elf still on the ground lifts a hand off her nose to wave. “We’re searching for our sister Sylvanas.”

 

  “Ah, Lireesa Windrunner’s daughter.” A pang of sympathy goes through Roz’s chest. Poor soul, to escape the horrors of war only to be swept away by such a cruel tide. “I’ve been co-ordinating our search teams. Mayor Roz of Brennadam,” she adds, taking the proffered hand and giving it a firm shake; the lad winces. “Sorry.”

 

  Lirath retrieves his hand and gives it a cautious wiggle. “We thought we’d go inland in case she’d sought shelter on higher ground… but all we found was a treasure chest. Oh, and some ettins.”

 

  The blood drains from Morwell’s face. “Ettins? Are you alright? You managed to flee?”

 

  Lirath, glancing to his sister, opens the satchel and reveals a glistening pile of coins. “I thought we could use them to pay for the search for Sylvanas,” he says in a small voice.

 

  Roz bends to haul Alleria upright. “You don’t need to pay anything. The Lord Admiral has allocated Proudmoore Admiralty funds for as long as it takes to find her.”

 

  Dropping the satchel back to his side, Lirath’s ears droop. “Th-thank you… truly your hospitality has been second to none, and I don’t doubt your forces will do all they can to find her, it’s just- it’s just that only one thing terrifies me more than the thought that she’s out there, thinking we’ve given up on her. And that’s the thought that she’s-”

 

  Alleria grabs him by the shoulders and hauls him closer to hiss something curt and angry in Thalassian. Mumbling his response, Lirath bends his head, cheeks wet.

 

  Resisting the urge to wrap her arms around him- but she’ll be damned if he doesn’t look in need of a good cuddle- Roz hefts her shield up from the ground and props it on the wall. “If you’re all done here, I think I’ve broken your nose. Morwell, you can cover until I send someone to relieve you.” She crooks a finger at the elves. “I’ll find you a healer and get the lady’s face fixed.”

 

  “Thank you,” Alleria snuffles, shoving her brother away. “I pity the poacher who tries to get one up on you.”

 

  Roz looks to Lirath, shoulders shuddering with quiet sobs. “All is not lost,” she says gently, and she can’t resist taking his arm to start guiding him back to the village. _Should I be giving the lad false hope?_ “The Lord Admiral returns from his voyage soon. He knows these currents better than any soul alive.” With a deep sigh, she wraps her arm around him, rubbing his back. “No doubt he will have some fresh ideas on where to find her.”

 

-0-0-

 

  “She’s in the crew’s quarters,” Daelin says, spyglass held to his good eye. “She insisted on moving around, so Derek’s stuck to her like a limpet. Said she’s fine as long as she has something to distract her. Cook’s lavished her with food but she’s barely touching it. No wonder she floats. You haven’t told her about the-?”

 

  He motions to the smouldering wreckage before them. Even cloaked by darkness, the sight of it makes Jaina shudder.

 

  “No. Derek told her we thought it to be a Kul Tiran ship. That we would make landfall to investigate. I couldn’t tell her how… broken it was. Father, I don’t think even the hull could have survived intact.” Chewing on her lip, she meets his eye. “What if we search there tomorrow and we… find bodies?”

 

  “Too dangerous to approach it, still aflame as it is. We’ll dock at Brennadam and find out what we can.” Daelin glances back towards the wreck. “Sanders had some plan to do an evening’s entertainment for her. Go rescue her again. Leave the net up here this time.”

 

  Jaina rolls her eyes. “You’re staying up here? It’ll be morning before we reach Brennadam.”

 

  “Aye. The outcrops here’ll dash a ship to pieces afore she can so much as steer away. I don’t want to risk it with our precious cargo. Oh, and we want to keep the elf safe as well as me- get your elbow out of my ribs!” He leans closer to press a kiss to her cheek. “In case you ever wondered why I never let you and your brothers sail here. It’d take ages to build a new pleasure craft.”

 

  “You know I’d never let my brothers drown, Father.” Jaina leans closer. “But I’d have far too much fun letting _them_ think I would.”

 

  “Tides, I think Derek needs saving from _you_. Poor Miss Sylvanas will want to pitch herself back overboard if you two come to blows.” But their faces quickly fall sombre once again as they both glance back to the gutted ship lying before them. “Go on. See if you can keep her distracted between you.”

 

  “I’ll do my best.” She throws him a mock salute and thuds back down the steps.

 

  Keep Sylvanas distracted. The crew might have some ideas, she muses, rubbing tired eyes as she nudges the door to the crew’s area open with her hip. In spite of appearances, some of them have the odd spark of inspiration between them-

 

  “Arrrrrr! I’ll be boilin’ you in a cauldron! Arrrr!”

 

  “Sanders, we’re doing _Arom’s Victory._ You’re playing Gorak Tul, not a pirate.”

 

  “I told you I can only do one baddie voice.”

 

  Perhaps inspiration was the wrong word.

 

  As she goggles at the motley sight before her, a hand grabs hers and Derek pulls her in. “Come to watch?” He motions to the crew, all sat watching the bosun corralling Sanders and the cook- clad in the tackiest gold cape Jaina has ever seen, a burly woman either side of him- into position on the makeshift stage. “Friday remains their entertainment night, regardless of how much drama we’ve had during the day. You’re normally reading. Did Jaina Proudmoore finally find the book that bored her enough to come and spend time with her crew?”

 

  “There’s a book about you?” Jaina, resigned to Sanders’ evening of unintentional slapstick, drops onto the hammock beside him. “Ugh, there’s a lump under me. Where’s Sylvanas?”

 

  “That would be the lump,” comes a quiet voice beside her ear.

 

  “Shit!” Jaina leaps up, running frantic hands over Sylvanas. “I am so sorry! Me and my big- well, arse! Oh Tides, I’m so sorry, I didn’t hurt you, did I-?”

 

  “No, you didn’t.” There’s a tiny, barely-there smile creeping over Sylvanas’s face. Derek is holding his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. “But I’ll take being mistaken for a hammock over being mistaken for a siren.”

 

  “My sincerest apologies,” Jaina mumbles, pressing the back of her hand to a cheek as red as Tiragarde lobster. “I’m better known for putting my foot in things, not my bum on things.”

 

  At least it gets a smile out of her. That might actually be worth enduring Derek’s teasing for the next decade for.

 

  It’s a very beautiful smile.

 

  “Fine, fine,” the bosun hollers, plopping onto a chair at the edge of the makeshift stage. Derek shifts over, still chuckling, so Jaina can- very carefully, one hand on Sylvanas’s leg- sit down between the two of them. “Gorak Tul is now a pirate, for some Light-forsaken reason. Go on, Sanders.”

 

  “ARRRR!” Sanders yells, and the cook squeaks.

 

  “He’s not bad,” one of the crew holding the poor man in place says.

 

  “Think he’s working out some personal issues,” the other sailor chips in.

 

  “You know what? The lot of you can go to the depths. Gorak Tul swept Arom Waycrest into his arms and sailed away with him on his wicker pirate ship, serenading him with ancient sea shanties. Before nightfall the two were lovers.” The crew cheers. “Right! Last on the programme that I made up this evening is the fall of Priscilla Ashvane. I’ve got some suspenders here if anyone wants to play Priscilla? Or the ettin? You get to hit people over the head?”

 

  The crew descends into bickering; Jaina glances to their elven guest. Sylvanas’s eyes have dropped to the floor and she’s picking feverishly at the sleeve of her borrowed shirt, jaw tightly gritted. Derek reaches round his sister and places a gentle hand on Sylvanas’s arm.

 

  “I’m Priscilla!” Jaina jumps up, shoves her way through the crew and grabs the suspenders, to near deafening cheers from the crew. Derek cackles with laughter, but Jaina’s eyes are fixed on Sylvanas as she blinks, her lip twitching up in the beginnings of that lovely smile.

 

  It barely touches anxious eyes, but it’s the start she needs.

 

  Taking a deep breath, Jaina turns, wrapping the suspenders around her waist. “Sanders, stop gawking at our guest and come play my mother.”

 

  “You cannot be serious,” the bosun groans.

 

  “Oh, I am. Give me that cape.” Jaina snatches the gold cape and wraps it around Sanders’ shoulders. “And for one performance only, Bosun Greywater, Katherine Proudmoore is a pirate.”

 

  “We still need an ettin!” the bosun roars over the crew’s merriment. “And a handsome creature for the ettin’s hostage!”

 

  “Alright, I’m the ettin,” yells a woman who barely comes up to Jaina’s waist. “Come on, you lot! Someone get on this stage!”

 

  “You after a beauty in need of a rescue?” Derek stands and stretches out, offering Sylvanas a quick mock bow before the tiny ettin grabs him and hauls him onto the makeshift stage. “Ah, Sanders, you’d better come rescue me quick before Doris tears me limb from limb!”

 

  “You’re screwed, Master Proudmoore,” someone calls.

 

  “Once upon a time!” the bosun screeches. “Once upon a bloody time, as Daelin Proudmoore’s fleet struggled through a terrible storm to Drustvar, a gryphon from Brennadam touched down in Tradewinds and its rider begged for help- her beloved had been stolen away by an ettin and the mayor crushed to bits in his attempt to rescue them! Katherine Proudmoore placed her tiny daughter-” he spares Jaina a nod- “in the arms of her brother. Not you, the responsible one.”

 

  “Ouch,” Derek says. “In my defence, it was a very shallow bit of the harbour. And, for your information-” he points to Sylvanas- “that’s how we found out she was a frost mage!”

 

  “Derek, the one and only time Tandred was asked to babysit, he left me in Tradewinds. In the rain. And he’s _still_ the responsible brother.”

 

  “Katherine Proudmoore took to the gryphon herself,” Greywater sighs. “And she flew directly to Brennadam, weaving her way through tempestuous winds- just jump up and down a bit, Sanders, we did have some spare sail for the tempestuous winds, but it’s all soggy.”

 

  “ _Greywater,_ ” Jaina hisses, elbowing him in the gut so hard he staggers back.

 

  “My apologies, Mr Greywater,” Sylvanas says, and every head turns her way. “I must remember to be less siren-like when being rescued.”

 

  “Well, it’s a sad state of affairs when our guest has more wit than our night’s entertainment, so let us continue!” Greywater hollers over the crew’s laughter. He flings an arm out, but Jaina’s eyes remain on Sylvanas, on the drawn face and tense shoulders just starting to incrementally relax. “Katherine Proudmoore touched down in Brennadam to mad panic- I _don’t_ want that performed, sit back down- and there, screeching like a banshee with laughter amidst the terrified townsfolk, was Priscilla Ashvane!”

 

  “ARRRR! It be Priscilla Ashvane, terrorisin’ my townsfolk!” Sanders frowns. “Arrr. Indeed.”

 

  Jaina folds her arms. “She had more of a throaty chuckle really.”

 

  “Screeching like a banshee, was Priscilla Ashvane-” Greywater gulps as ice crackles up his legs. “Alright, alright, a throaty chuckle it is.”

 

  Jaina steps closer to Sanders, taking them nose to nose. “I knew you would never be able to resist a plea from your people, Lord Admiral,” she growls. “And with that said- follow if you dare, Proudmoore, but you may never live to see that pretty girl of yours grow up!”

 

  “I think Priscilla needed spectacles,” Derek mutters.

 

  “And with that,” Greywater hollers, still kicking the ice from his trousers, “Priscilla Ashvane turned into a bat and flew towards the mountains!”

 

  “Greywater.” Jaina folds her arms. “Is this intended to be, in any way, realistic?”

 

  “Meanwhile, Katherine Proudmoore leapt on her pet dragon and gave chase up into the ettin-infested hills, and into a cave- dodging ettins left, right and centre-”

 

  Sanders leaps to one side and Derek, flailing melodramatically to escape the ettin’s grasp, trips over his first mate's outstretched leg and takes out Doris and the hammocks making up the side of the makeshift stage in one clumsy swoop.

 

  “I said dodging-! You’re all hopeless. Completely hopeless.” Greywater crumples the script up and tosses it out of the closest porthole. “The ettin became Katherine Proudmoore’s housekeeper and Priscilla Ashvane developed a passion for flower arranging and opening orphanages. Master Proudmoore, are you alright?”

 

  “He’s fine,” Jaina chuckles, offering her hand to their unfortunate ettin and leaving Derek to struggle upright, clutching dramatically at his ribs. “Does my darling brother need some ice for his boo-boo?”

 

  “Not from you, he doesn’t,” Derek retorts.

 

  Rolling her eyes, Jaina turns back to Sylvanas. “And thus concludes the evening’s entertainment,” she says drily. “Thank you for taking them in good humour.”

 

  Sylvanas smiles. This time, it does reach her eyes, as worried and exhausted as they are.

 

  “Perhaps a toast for the lady, to finish the night off,” Derek says, a gleam in his eye. Striding back over, he sweeps a theatrical hand over the hammock, lips pursed into an over-exaggerated pout. “Just checking for any elves before I sit down.”

 

  There’s the tiniest snigger from Sylvanas.

 

  “Nope! Don’t think there are any! Well, that’s a relief, I can sit DOWN!” Derek’s foot skids up and he thuds arse-first onto the perfect circle of ice beneath him. “JAINA!”

 

  Smiling innocently, Jaina steps over him and sits down beside Sylvanas. “So, as my brother was saying before his _unfortunate_ accident.”

 

  “You were an accident,” Derek groans.

 

  “Do high elves have alcohol?” Jaina reaches down and tugs the hip flask out of Derek’s jacket, ignoring his flailed attempts to tug her down on top of him.

 

  “Quel’dorei enjoy wine.” Sylvanas eyes the flask dubiously. “Though it is usually drunk from a bottle.”

 

  “Poured from a bottle, you mean.”

 

  “Not where my mother’s concerned, I don’t.”

 

  Snorting, Jaina conjures three little glasses to pour generous slurps into. “This is called whisky. Derek really likes it. It does burn a little, the first time you have it, but it’s really very pleasant.” She hands one of the glasses to Sylvanas, who squints at it, sloshing the liquid from side to side. “Derek, sit up. Stop being such an overly-dramatic arse.”

 

  “You’re the one treating every Tom, Dick and Sylvanas to my whisky- and I’d have thought after your little mishap, your arse is the last part of your body you’d want to draw attention to.” Derek nudges Sylvanas’s knee, now sat cross-legged on the floor before them; her ear twitches. “Anyway, enough wittering on. To your health, Miss Windrunner.” He lifts his glass and clinks it against Sylvanas’s, then Jaina’s.

 

  “To your health,” Jaina murmurs, and does the same, clacking her glass a little harder against Derek’s. “With thanks to our benefactor here for the whisky.” She flashes Derek a toothy grin. “Bottoms up!”

 

  A bemused look on her face, Sylvanas slowly rises a little from the hammock.

 

  “It means ‘enjoy your drink’,” Jaina says quickly.

 

  “Oh.” She plops back down.

 

  Derek throws his glassful back, hissing softly as the sting hits his tongue. “Ah, Father did a marvellous job finding this!” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning up at his sister. “Don’t you go telling the crew about me and my flask, Jaina, I only condone it for this special occasion. Tides know they get into Father’s supplies often enough. We only find out when we start sailing diagonally. He really does need to be tougher on them-”

 

  “ _Anar’endal dracon!_ ” Glass clattering to the floor, Sylvanas pitches forwards, coughing into her fist; Jaina rushes to catch her, patting her back. “It- my tongue- _Belore-_ ”

 

  “Here, have this,” Jaina says quickly, pushing a freshly-conjured goblet of water into her hand. Sylvanas chugs it without a second’s thought. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have let you drink it neat- Derek, how could you let me do that? You’re meant to be taking care of our guest!”

 

  Eyes watering, Sylvanas straightens. Her face is bright red. “That,” she gasps, wiping at her cheeks, “was…”

 

  _Oh, great. Now I get to explain to the Lord Admiral how ‘looking after our guest’ turned into ‘poisoning the poor wretch with an evening tipple’-_

“Incredible,” Sylvanas wheezes, patting her chest. “May I- try again?”

 

  Derek bursts out laughing. “Please,” he chuckles, pouring her another snifter into the glass Jaina quickly conjures, “take it slowly this time. You just about sent my sister to the depths.”

 

  “Derek.” Shoulders sagging, Jaina knocks her own whisky back in one gulp and holds it back out. “Make mine a hearty one. Please.”

 

  Still grinning, Derek does as he’s told, knocking his own glassful back just as quickly as the first. Sylvanas, the blotchy flush of her face faded to a pleasant smattering of red across her high cheekbones (not that Jaina’s looking that closely, absolutely not, just making sure she’s alright), sips delicately, baring her fangs as the heat hits. “It is so unlike our alcohol,” she croaks, “but immensely satisfying.”

 

  “Welcome to Kul Tiras.” Derek motions to the glass with a cheeky grin. “That’ll put the hairs on your chest.”

 

  “I really, really hope that is another human figure of speech.”

 

  Derek glances down to the soft fair hairs peeking out of his shirt, and back up. Jaina catches his eye and silently tugs her neckline a little higher.

 

  Sylvanas’s ears droop.

 

  Derek breaks first, spluttering a laugh in the same second Jaina bends her head, shoulders shaking with the strain of holding in her giggles. “I’m afraid,” he gasps, wiping his eyes, “that my sister and I are terrible teases, Miss Windrunner. Whisky turns sailors into fools, not furballs.”

 

  Rolling her eyes, Sylvanas takes another sip.

 

  “I imagine your husband would have my hide,” Derek says, nodding to the ring on Sylvanas’s hand.

 

  Jaina promptly chokes on her whisky; Sylvanas gives her back a whack that nearly knocks the breath out of her. “Are you alright?”

 

  “Was that payback for the fishing net?” Jaina wheezes.

 

  “Once again, Jaina, the air is for inhaling and the whisky is for swallowing. We’ve been through this- ow!” Derek’s cut off by Jaina’s foot in his ribs. “My bum’s still numb, you savage!”

 

  “Good.” An acidity in her chest that has nothing to do with the whisky, Jaina looks back at the ring. It’s a simple band with a single blue gem, not unlike the one at Sylvanas’s throat, half-hidden by the collar of Derek’s shirt. “It’s a lovely ring,” she says, not at all feeling the warmth she injects into her voice.

 

  “I’m sure my father would be very flattered,” Sylvanas says, rubbing her eyes.

 

  Jaina blinks. “Your… father?”

 

  “It’s his ring. I wear it so that people assume I’m married.” She glances back to Derek. “It’s also wonderful for punching people. The imprint lasts for days.”

 

  “The more I talk to you, Miss Windrunner,” Derek says, bringing one hand up into a mock salute, “the more I like you.”

 

  Grinning for reasons she refuses to allow herself to acknowledge, Jaina finishes off her whisky and collects the glasses together, dissipating them into little flurries of mana. “Not a problem that you have, Derek. Who knows, one day you might find yourself spending time with someone who isn’t your relative, your employee or concussed.”

 

  “Lucille and I had a good thing for a time! Well, after she’d recovered. And I paid for the chest of drawers.” He whacks her knee with the back of his hand. “Besides, you’re one to talk. Just remind me what happened to _your_ last fling?”

 

  “For the last time, Derek, I was trying to be romantic. Besides, who builds a balcony that bloody flimsy? That was just asking for-”

 

  A warm weight drops onto Jaina’s shoulder. She turns her head and soft, fine hair tickles her nose.

 

  “Oh,” Derek murmurs. “I think the nightcap worked a little too efficiently.”

 

  “ _Shhhh!_ ” Jaina jumps as Sanders leaps to his feet and starts hissing at the sailors around him, flapping his arms like a demented pigeon. “The lady elf is sleeping!” The entire crew promptly descends into madly shushing one another. “Shhh! Stop shhh-ing! You there! Shh!”

 

  Derek eases himself up, reaching for Sylvanas, but Jaina shakes her head. “She’s alright,” she whispers, wriggling until she has one arm around Sylvanas’s back. One ear flicks languidly. “Let her be.”

 

  “Are you sure?”

 

  “Of course. You get everyone else to their quarters.” Jaina glances down as a hand comes to rest on her thigh. “I’ll take her back to your cabin when she wakes.”

 

  Derek tugs his jacket off and carefully drapes it over Sylvanas’s sleeping form, creeps a step forward to press a kiss to Jaina’s forehead, and turns on his heel to start shooing the sailors out towards their hammocks.

 

  Exhaling a long breath through her nose, Jaina looks down at the tousled silvery-blonde head nestled into her neck. Sylvanas’s hair smells faintly of tulips. The warm weight of her upper body pressed against Jaina is oddly soothing. “I hope elves are deep sleepers,” she murmurs, covering the fingers on her leg with her own and rubbing the back of Sylvanas’s palm. “I’m afraid those sailors snore like murlocs.”

 

  Sylvanas’s only response is a soft breath that tickles Jaina’s clavicle.

 

  The last oil lamp is extinguished, and Greywater tiptoes out with a little wave. Jaina nods back. Gives Sylvanas a gentle squeeze about the waist and closes her eyes to think of anything apart from the smouldering, shattered vessel the _Lady Katherine_ is sailing towards.

 

-0-0-

 

   Alleria directs a half-conscious Lirath before her as they stumble through the Mayor’s office door, rubbing eyes bleary with exhaustion. Her Minn’da is fast asleep, curled into a ball in her chair, but across the room Vereesa’s ear twitches and she opens her eyes.

 

  “Lady Moon?” she whispers.

 

  She can’t say it. Alleria bites her lip as her eyes fill with tears, and all she can do is shake her head.

 

  Vereesa exhales a shuddering sob. The bags beneath her eyes are sickly purple and puffy in the strained morning sunlight. “You- you tried your very best,” she mumbles. “I know you did.” Her cheeks are red raw. “Both of you.”

 

  There’s nothing Alleria can say to make it better. Nothing at all. She wraps one arm around Lirath and takes a shaky step forward, reaches to touch her sister’s shoulder.

 

  All that comes out is, “I miss her.”

 

  “Me too, Alleria.” The siblings’ arms curl round each other, squeezing tight. “So much.”

 

-0-0-

 

  “You’ve been very quiet this morning, Derek.” Daelin is far more chipper than any man awake for as long as he has been has any right to be, striding up along the dock with Derek by his side. Brennadam is quiet before them, only the roosters awake early enough to enjoy the dusty pink of the skies and the pleasant breeze scattering their hair around. “How is our guest faring?”

 

  Derek bites his lower lip. “A quick question, Father.”

 

  “Aye?”

 

  “How strong was the whisky you gave me at Winter’s Veil?”

 

  Daelin stops dead to turn towards him, one eyebrow rising into his hairline. Derek gulps.

 

  “Well,” he says eventually, resuming his pace, “I suppose we’ll find out what ‘hangover’ is in elf-speak, won’t we?”

 

  “I’m starting to understand why Tandred is the responsible brother.”

 

  They round the corner into the town centre. A few lamps glow in the windows of the inn; Roz’s office door is wide open. “Good old Roz,” Daelin grins, rubbing his bruised eyes. “Always ready to take on whatever Brennadam throws at her.”

 

  “Including the Lord Admiral begging for ideas for his wife’s birthday present?”

 

  “You-! How did you know about that?”

 

  “I was hoping to ask her too.”

 

  “You conniving little copycat-”

 

  Derek holds a hand up. “I’ll do you a deal, Father. You keep quiet about my accidental pickling of our guest, and I won’t tell my darling mother that Roz put “your” wonderful birthday hamper together. How does that sound?”

 

  “Very interesting,” says a voice by his ear.

 

  Gulping, Derek turns slowly to his mother stood in the doorway behind him, eyebrow cocked and arms folded. “Good morning, sweethearts,” she says, looking from Derek to his father and back again. “Welcome back to dry land.”

 

  “Judging by your face, it’s a short visit,” Derek mumbles.

 

  “Good morning, darling.” Daelin tugs at his collar, attempting something approaching a charming smile. “She only advised. I wrapped it. Well, I tried. It’s quite fiddly, you see.”

 

  But there’s a smile tugging at Katherine’s mouth. “I didn’t expect you back so soon, and I admit, I’m glad to see you. Is everything alright? Where’s Jaina?”

 

  “Still on the ship.” Shaking his head, Daelin steps forwards and presses a kiss to Katherine’s mouth; Derek gags until his mother reaches out and doffs him upside the ear. “We’ve a little surprise for you, my dear. A proper surprise.”

 

  “Did Roz organise this one as well?”

 

  Daelin has the good grace to blush. “No, Jaina did, actually. Kind of.”

 

  “As intrigued as I am, I’ll bet my surprise is bigger.”

 

  “Impossible,” Derek says, folding his arms. “Utterly impossible.”

 

  “Oh, I bet it is.” Katherine’s grinning now. “You go ahead, darling. Your surprise first.”

 

  “You sure?”

 

  “Positive.”

 

  Daelin straightens his spine a little. “We found,” he says, almost vibrating with excitement, “or should I say your daughter found… an elf!”

 

  Katherine blinks. “An elf?” she says slowly. “Where?”

 

  “Floating in the water!” Derek laughs. “That’s why we had to call for Pike! He was the only one we could think of who knew anything about elves.” He motions to the _Lady Katherine_ , bobbing gently, half-hidden behind the inn. “Do you want to see her, Mother? She’s real, I promise!”

 

  But Katherine’s grin has returned in force. “Ah, not before I show you my surprise,” she says, and cackles at the look on Daelin’s face. “Come on!”

 

  She grabs her husband’s hand and tugs him towards the door of the inn; Derek follows, frowning. “Mother, what could possibly be in the Brennadam Inn that is more important than us finding an actual _elf?_ ”

 

  Katherine throws the door open-

 

  And an inn filled to the brim with elven faces turns, as one, to look at the two men gaping like fish.

 

  “Hello,” the closest one says.

 

  Elves everywhere. Sat on the bar, perched on the arms of the sofa, in groups on the floor. The stairs are completely impassable for elves slouched over them, chattering. Town Guard Morwell and a red-haired elf are each holding half a book, their spare hands midway through gesturing to one another. The barkeeper freezes mid-demonstration of his beer pump, six elves all craning to watch him.

 

  Katherine silently reaches over and closes Derek’s gaping jaw for him.

 

  “Hello,” Daelin manages, voice strangled.

 

  “Bloody,” Derek murmurs, “and I cannot emphasise this enough- _hell._ ”

 

  Katherine giggles. “I told you my surprise was better.”

 

  “Damn it, Derek.” Daelin runs a hand over his forehead; still laughing, Katherine wraps her arms around his waist. “We only found one. I feel a bit pathetic now.”

 

  Derek steadies himself against the doorframe, still staring at the crowd before him. “Hello,” he says, and a few hands lift in little waves. “Um… nice to meet you.” And, aside to Daelin: “Father, shouldn’t we go and get Sylvanas, I’m sure she’ll be relieved-”

 

  “Sylvanas?” Katherine’s eyes bulge. “That’s the name of the elf you found?”

 

  “Aye. Sylvanas Windrunner. Lovely girl.”

 

  With a gleeful shriek, Katherine grabs Daelin and plants an enormous smacker on his cheek. “You stay here,” she cries, breathless with delight, “I have a very important errand!” She turns and flies back into Roz’s office. “LIREESA! LIREESA! WE’VE FOUND HER! WE’VE FOUND SYLVANAS!”

 

  Exchanging looks, Daelin and Derek turn back to the inn-ful of elves.

 

  “In for a copper, in for a gold,” Daelin says, and steps inside. “Welcome to Kul Tiras. First round’s on me. So- what do elves drink?”

 

-0-0-

 

  “As much as I enjoyed it,” Sylvanas says, a conjured ice pack held to her forehead, “I may give your brother’s whisky a miss next time.”

 

  Huffing a rather regretful grin- her own head is more than a little tender- Jaina nudges the goblet of water back towards Sylvanas’s lips. Her ears droop pathetically, eyes dull and red-rimmed in her drawn face. “We’ve docked in Brennadam, by the way. Welcome to Stormsong Valley. Best known as the most agricultural of Kul Tiras’s lands. Lots of farmland. Lots of hunting.”

 

  The tips of Sylvanas’s ears perk up just a little at that. “Hunting is good.”

 

  “For you, maybe. I nearly caught a rabbit once, but Tandred sneezed.”

 

  “You go hunting in pairs?”

 

  “No, I was supposed to be looking after him because he had a cold.”

 

  Sylvanas’s forehead furrows.

 

  “On reflection, hunting was a terrible choice of activity.” Jaina nods to the goblet and winces at the pound of pain in her temples. “Go on. Keep drinking. It will get better.”

 

  Sylvanas takes a sip. It takes a visible effort to swallow, but she forces it down. “Still waiting on that promise of feeling better,” she mumbles around the rim.

 

  They both glance up at footsteps hammering across the deck.

 

  “Sounds like my father found his rum thief.” Jaina looks back at the goblet; Sylvanas groans. “Please? One more sip? For me?”

 

  “Your breweries have a lot to answer for,” Sylvanas mumbles.

 

  Smiling sympathetically, Jaina takes the goblet to cool the water back down-

 

  The door bursts open and an elven woman with Sylvanas’s high cheekbones and Sylvanas’s kind eyes throws her arms around her, sobbing with abandon. “ _Dalah’surfal,_ ” she cries, pressing kisses to every inch of Sylvanas’s head she can, holding her face in her hands as Sylvanas’s face crumples.

 

  “ _Minn’da,_ ” she sobs, reaching for her.

 

  More thudding and three more high elves fly through the door and pile on Sylvanas and the elf Jaina can only assume, through the tears blurring her eyes, is her mother. Clutching Sylvanas’s hand in both of hers, one elven woman garbles like a creature possessed, lifting Sylvanas’s knuckles up to press her lips to them; the other woman, hair as silver as moonlight, skids to her knees beside Sylvanas and hugs her tightly about the waist, tears pouring down her cheeks. Face split in two by a watery beam, the man wraps one arm around the silver-haired elf and rubs with the other up and down Sylvanas’s back as she buries her face in her mother’s neck and her body shudders with the force of her crying.

 

  Arms come around Jaina’s waist and tug her closer. “I couldn’t miss this moment,” Katherine whispers, rubbing Jaina’s shoulder. “Oh dear… have you got a hanky?”

 

  “Bloody hell!” Sanders, still in his nightwear, rubs his eyes furiously, staring at the pile of weeping elves from the doorway of the crew’s quarters. “That’s the last time I skim the Lord Admiral’s rum. I’m seeing double- triple- more than that, even.”

 

  Sylvanas gasps something in her beautiful, melodic tongue. The elf she clings to looks up at Jaina, bright blue eyes bruised and teary. “Thank you,” she murmurs, her own arms wrapped tightly around Sylvanas. “My daughter says you found her drifting and saved her from the ocean.” One hand reluctantly disentangles from Sylvanas and grabs Jaina’s forearm. “We are forever in your debt.”

 

  Scrubbing the tears from her face, Jaina manages a smile. “Don’t be daft,” she says, turning back to her own mother. “I’ll consider every debt paid if I can get a proper, strong cup of tea. The Brennadam Inn did a lovely blend, if I remember.”

 

  “Mm,” Katherine says, non-committal. She squeezes Jaina’s shoulder and guides her gently towards the doorway. “Sanders, tell the crew they can take the next day off if they use the other set of stairs to the deck. And as for you, my intrepid, elf-fishing daughter, I can’t wait to hear more about this voyage.”

 

  “I may need a few brews for that.” Jaina glances back towards the family holding tight to each other, hiccupping through her grin. “But I’m sure we can manage it.”

 

  “I’ll see if the Brennadam Inn can find a table in between the odd thousand elves trying to perch in there.”

 

  “That sounds- _thousands?_ Oh, Tides. It always gets exciting when I’m off sailing, doesn’t it.”

 

  Katherine chuckles. “And Derek said you tripped him up.”

 

  “He was teasing me!”

 

  “I can still ground you.”

 

  “It was nothing to do with me. I merely provided the patch of ice he slipped on.”

 

  “If being a mage doesn’t work out, Jaina dearest, you have a true calling in law. Now. Who mentioned a cup of tea?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this has taken so long! I desperately wanted happy Windrunners, but I also desperately wanted to graduate my uni course. (And I feel this chapter is a little more serious- the comedy will return!) Honestly I've revised this chapter so many times it should be illegal. Really, really hope you enjoy it now it's here :/ Any feedback is gratefully received and thank you for reading this far! :D


	4. Chapter 4

  _290 years prior_

 

  She’s late.

 

  Ranger Initiate Sylvanas Windrunner paces. A few steps behind her, Vereesa lies loose-limbed on the sunny grass in front of the Spire, giggling with little Lirath. Vogel hums an old Thalassian ditty as he tends to the healing herbs in their brightly coloured planters. A wild hawkstrider grazes nonchalantly near the pathway.

 

  Sylvanas knows any incident regarding the Ranger-General’s company would be all over Quel’Thalas by now; the high elves’ legendary ability with a bow is outclassed only by their legendary capacity for gossip. On occasion, Lireesa has been rather put out when a particularly juicy titbit of information has beaten her home. And her mother is, of course, more than equipped to handle whatever Quel’Thalas can throw at her.

 

  But she’s _late._

 

  Sylvanas kicks at the turf under her boots, scowling. There is no such thing as a delay for the Farstriders. Silvermoon’s elite rangers cannot afford such fripperies as late departures.

 

  And yet, no sign of her Minn’da, not so much as a single archer-

 

  She jumps at Lirath’s shriek as Vereesa hauls him up by his ankle, baring her fangs through a grin. “I’ll eat you!” she snarls. He squeals and grabs at her nose. “Oh, I’ll eat you fingers first, little elfling! And I won’t stop at that, look at those chubby cheeks-”

 

  “Put him down, Vereesa,” Sylvanas hisses. “He’s giving me a headache.”

 

  Two desolate little faces stare wordlessly at her, then turn to their Ann’da, still hunched over his pots. Pouting, Vereesa sets her brother on the ground and wraps an arm around him before rolling over to favour Sylvanas with her back.

 

  She folds her arms and continues pacing, jaw gritted.

 

  Perhaps she ought to run down into the village. Just in case. Surely Ann’da must be getting concerned too. Six whole minutes is such a long time.

 

  “Sylvanas, my strong daughter!” Said father has turned and is grinning up at her from his pots, a leatherette-gloved hand reaching out towards her. There’s a thick smear of dirt on his chin. “May I have some assistance?”

 

  “Ask Vereesa, if you must,” she snaps. “I’m busy.”

 

  And recoils at her own words as Vogel’s smile drops from his face. “Ann’da… I didn’t mean… I’m sorry.”

 

  “By the light of the Sunwell, Sylvanas, what have I done?” Wide, bewildered eyes search her face. Her ears droop. “Are you well? Is something distressing you? When did you last have some water?”

 

  She drops her head as tears sting her eyes, staring at the trowel in her father’s fingers. “Minn’da is late,” she mumbles. By Belore, it sounds so pathetic out loud. “With no message sent ahead.”

 

  “That I can understand.” He dumps the trowel back onto the bed and wipes his gloves on his breeches. “It’s a while since you’ve seen her.”

 

  “Perhaps I should take Dori and ride out to find them. We should lock Vereesa and Lirath in the house just in case-”

 

  “Lady Moon.” Vogel eases to his feet and holds out his arms. She stumbles into them. “Seven minutes is the difference between a skittish hawkstrider and a steady one. A swift departure and one mired by nobles’ interference. _Belore_ , seven minutes is as long as it used to take you to lace your boots. She will want to be back just as keenly as you want her back, _dalah’surfal_ \- and the Ranger-General can hardly be late for the Farstriders’ feast.”

 

  She doesn’t miss the ear that swivels round, tall and alert, as he rubs his hand up and down her back. “Your mother is hardly defenceless, you know,” he murmurs against her cheek. “I’ve yet to meet the troll that doesn’t mess its loincloth at the sight of her in full flight.”

 

  Sighing, Sylvanas rests her cheek against his shoulder. “Of course you’re right. Of course you are.” Her arms come round his waist, squeezing. “I just hope nothing has happened.”

 

  “As if your mother would allow something as insignificant as a troll to scratch her boots, never mind take her down,” Vogel chuckles. “Why, she’d never hear the end of-”

 

  His head jerks round and he leaps backwards as Vereesa screams.

 

  In a split second Sylvanas has her bow from her back and fires an arrow at the silhouette leaping from the treelines-

 

  And freezes at the very elven shriek it lets out as it collapses, clutching its shoulder.

 

  “Alleria!” Vogel bolts forwards, skidding to his knees at her side. “Vereesa, take Lirath and run for a healer. Stay down now, Lady Sun! Sylvanas, fetch me a towel, quickly, please. Liri, hold still, let me have a good look.”

 

  She stares at the crumpled form on the grass. Swallows hard. Alleria. Not a troll. Alleria, moaning softly. Her arrow in Alleria’s shoulder. Fired from her bow.

 

  “Sylvanas?”

 

  When she still doesn’t move, frozen in position, Vogel’s head turns. “Sylvanas,” he says, softer, “I need you to get me a towel. The arrow is lodged in the wound. What does that mean?”

 

  “That I’m going to _kill_ you, Sylvanas Windrunner,” her sister groans from the grass.

 

  Sylvanas gulps in a breath. “Less bleeding, Ann’da.” Dimly, somewhere, she hears Vereesa thud past with Lirath in her arms.

 

  “That’s right. Now go and get me that towel.” And he bends his head again. “Stop poking at it, Lady Sun, that’s not going to help.”

 

  “I tell you what would help, is you handing me her entire allowance for the next hundred years-”

 

  Her legs feel like jelly as she staggers back into the house. Thuds up the stairs and reaches blindly for the cabinet outside the washroom, tugs a pile of towels into her arms, and turns to make her stumbling way back down and out into the blinding sunlight with a haze of tears in her eyes only for gold-laced gloves to gently take the pile from hers before she’s even down the steps.

 

  “ _Bal’a dash,_ sweetheart,” her Minn’da’s voice says. The cool metal of one glove rubs against her arm. “Now, none of that! I had unplanned business in Fairbreeze, so I sent Lady Sun ahead to give you a surprise.”

 

  “She certainly managed that,” Vogel says behind her.

 

  “Minn’da!” Alleria struggles upright, scowling; Sylvanas goes cold at the sight of the blood dribbling from her sister’s shoulder. “Look what she did to me! _Look!_ ” Gesturing furiously at the wound, she glares from her mother to Sylvanas and back. “I propose the injured party be selected to choose the punishment-”

 

  “The injured party may be more convincingly injured if she weren’t sitting up and making so many demands.” Lireesa folds her arms. “I wonder what the other Rangers would think of Captain Alleria Windrunner if they learned she lay groaning and writhing on the grass with only half the arrowhead embedded in her flesh.”

 

  Alleria flushes red. “It- it hurt!” she yells. “And my own sister-”

 

  “Alleria, that’s _enough._ It is a training arrow. The healer is on their way and I’m sure you’ll find a sympathetic ear from Kael’thas at the feast tonight- Sylvanas, what are you doing?”

 

  Swiping furiously at the tears on her cheeks, Sylvanas rips her quiver off and dumps it at her mother’s feet before throwing her bow to the ground beside it and running into the Spire.

 

-0-0-

 

   Dusk has almost fallen. Her window is shut and her curtains drawn against the glow and hubbub from the feast below. Still pacing- there’s a visible dent in her carpet by now- Sylvanas has been all the way from misery to fury to utterly despondent and back by the time her door cracks open and a shadow falls over the entryway.

 

  “I’m sorry,” she mutters, staring at the ground. “I shouldn’t have been so jumpy. I should’ve waited before I shot. But Vereesa screamed and I was so frightened that something might be about to-”

 

  A little hand touches the crook of her knee and a small, pleading face appears before her, a well-worn flute stretched out towards her.

 

  “I didn’t want to go to the feast without you,” Lirath says, matter-of-fact. His lower lip sticks out in a pout. “You’ll be all alone and worse- you’ll get hungry.”

 

  He stares up at her, big golden eyes shimmering. “And you won’t hear me play the song you taught me if you’re not there. I was going to play when they light the bonfires.” He wraps himself right around her knees, grabbing fistfuls of her leggings. “I really wanted you to be there when I played your song.”

 

  His lower lip begins to tremble.

 

  “Lirath.” A tiny smile on her face, she kneels down beside him and wraps his little arms around her neck and he nestles his head in the crook of her shoulder. “When have you ever known me to miss a chance to show you off? But I don’t think Minn’da-”

 

  “She’s waiting downstairs for you,” Lirath mutters into her hair.

 

  “She is?”

 

  “And Ann’da had to stay at the feast with Vereesa but he’s all worried about you. I can tell. His ears do twitchy things when he’s upset. Like yours. But yours do it when you really like someone too.”

 

  She huffs a little laugh, rubbing her aching eyes. A cheer rises from the celebration outside. “Good to know. Alright, you little charmer, I’ll come,” she whispers. “I’ll come with you to the feast and hear you play.”

 

  Apparently that is more than enough for Lirath, as she promptly finds herself tugged out of her bedroom and down the stairs as fast as Lirath can jump and she’s barely drawn breath before her feet clatter onto the hallway floor and she stumbles into another, larger, set of arms waiting outstretched for her.

 

  “Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule of moping and skulking to come and join us, _dalah’surfal._ ” Lireesa’s hands rub over her back. Sylvanas can hear the grin in her mother’s voice. “For the record, Alleria sustained a terrible wound as she successfully dispatched five Amani trolls with only her bow and her- oh wait, was it six, Lirath?”

 

  “She said eight to Prince Kael’thas.”

 

  “ _Anar’alah,_ they’re dropping like flies. There’ll be none left for you and me at this rate.” Sylvanas snorts, face pressed into Lireesa’s casual leathers. “We will talk tomorrow about what happened. Your bow and your quiver are waiting in my workshop. For now, you have some serious catching up to do if you are ever to match your father pastry for pastry.”

 

  “Is that my punishment, Minn’da?”

 

  Lireesa chuckles. Lirath is already bounding along in front of them, jumping up and down in his excitement to return to the festivities. “Your punishment will be to keep an eye on Lirath after the desserts are served.”

 

  “Minn’da! It _was_ only a flesh wound!”

 

  “Any more protests and it’ll be Vereesa too.”

 

  “ _Belore,_ is that the time? I have some urgent brooding scheduled. You’ll have to excuse me.”

 

  Lireesa directs her outside, beaming. “Game meat pastry? Here, they’re wonderful. And by the light of the Sunwell, double check how many trolls it is before you say anything. Wouldn’t want anyone to think Alleria might be stretching the truth with her version of events.” Her fingers squeeze Sylvanas’s. “She’s fine. You’re fine. Now go rescue the Prince from your poor wounded sister and her slightly embellished tales of heroism before he ice blocks for a respite.”

 

-0-0-

 

  “I hope you’re not expecting too much sympathy,” Alleria sniffles.

 

  Held tightly to her mother, Vereesa’s arms around her waist, Sylvanas’s heavy eyes slide to meet Alleria’s. The sun has risen over the horizon, scattering dappled light over her drawn features. Her hair gleams gold where it catches the first few rays.

 

  “Only for having to see your face again,” she croaks.

 

  But Alleria doesn’t return her teasing tweak of the lips. She looks down to her sister’s hand, to the finger bearing their father’s ring. Swallows the urge to rip it from her. Ann’da would have been furious with her for putting herself in such a dangerous position.

 

  “Be nice.” Lireesa’s voice is choked with joy. As though she has forgotten Sylvanas’s arrogance that night. “How did this wound happen, _dalah’surfal?_ It looks very sore.” Her fingers skim the welt above Sylvanas’s temple, and Alleria watches stony-faced as her sister squirms away from the probing fingers. “They’ve treated it nicely.”

 

  _Probably from the mast swinging into her and knocking her into the waves._

 

  “No sympathy for that either,” Alleria mutters.

 

  Sylvanas’s eyes narrow. “From you, Lady Sun, I expected none.”

 

  “Good. Because only a fool with a death wish would run up onto the deck in that kind of storm.” Alleria strives to keep her voice even, ignoring the sobs that threaten to burst up from her chest. Sylvanas’s hand in hers is still cold. “And now that you’ve been dragged from the depths like a drunken naga, maybe you could explain why you disobeyed a direct order from the Ranger Matriarch and climbed the fucking _rigging_ in the middle of-”

 

  “Enough.” Lireesa’s arms tighten around Sylvanas. “There is time for this later, Alleria, when your sister is better.”

 

  “I simply want an answer from our esteemed Ranger-General, Minn’da, as to why she would be so undeniably pig-headed as to walk out onto the deck of a flailing ship, look at sails full of tempestuous winds, and decide it was the perfect time for some sightseeing!”

 

  “Stop it!” Vereesa exhales a shuddering breath. Sylvanas’s spare hand immediately reaches for her. “I don’t care why. I don’t! She’s here. Isn’t that good enough for you? Belore granted us a miracle and swept our sister back into our arms and all you can do is criticise!”

 

  “And that makes it all better? These last four days of crying, of praying, of begging, of searching every crevice of this soggy little island- and then I had to walk back and watch you collapse into my arms when I returned without her!” She shoves Vereesa aside and grabs Sylvanas by the shoulders, tears spilling down her face. “Do you have _any_ idea how much it hurt? And this soon after beloved Ann’da? All for your moment of stupidity-”

 

  In one lunge, Sylvanas sends her clattering to the floor and thuds down above her, a hand either side of her head. “I ran onto that deck,” she snarls, face inches from Alleria’s, “because your favourite princeling was up on the mast. Screaming and flailing around with some ridiculous notion that he could save us by channelling energy into the storm about to fucking scupper us all! Is that a good enough reason? Well?” Her fist clenches in Alleria’s hair. “IS IT?”

 

  “I would sooner he drowned than let your light be extinguished!” Alleria shrieks.

 

  Sylvanas’s arms tremble and Alleria throws her own around her, bringing her down into a hug so tight it knocks the breath from her and before she knows it they’re both crying as desperately as the other, hair everywhere and robes dishevelled.

 

  “Thank _Belore_ for that,” Lirath’s voice says above them. “I thought I would have to get Vereesa to sing for a moment then. Only thing I could think of guaranteed to shut them up.”

 

  “I wonder how easy it is to play the flute upside down underwater, Lirath?”

 

  The hammock creaks as Lireesa eases herself off it and kneels down beside the pile of sobbing elf. “You’ll love having daughters, they said,” she sighs, tugging them up off the floor. “Peaceful and harmonious, they said.”

 

  “She started it,” Sylvanas sniffles.

 

  “I did not!”

 

  “Well, I’m finishing it.” Lireesa looks between them. “The last Windrunner off this boat will run ten laps around the village- Lirath, Vereesa, you didn’t wait for the countdown!”

 

  “It’s a big village!” Lirath calls from the distance.

 

  Lireesa rolls her eyes. “I might have been blessed with two daughters more stubborn than a hawkstrider matriarch,” she says, pulling Sylvanas back into her arms, “but at least we only have one Lirath to deal with. Come now, Lady Moon. We’ll walk with you.”

 

  Alleria wraps her arm around Sylvanas’s waist and helps her up to her feet. Fools who clamber up into rigging leaping and snapping in the wind, it would seem, are equalled only by arrogant magi who believe they can outpower a shipbreaker of a storm alone.

A chat with Kael’thas is overdue. Just a polite, friendly conversation that may or may not end in murder.

  Beside her, Sylvanas smiles as they step onto warm grass and the sunlight hits her face in full force.

 

-0-0-

 

  “Your father really thought he’d got the bigger surprise there, didn’t he?”

 

  “In fairness,” Jaina says, blowing at the steam rising from her cup of tea, “an inn-ful is a little excessive, Mother.”

 

  Chuckling, Katherine takes another sip of her tea, eyes falling shut for a second. Proudmoore Keep is a lot quieter and a lot less crowded than the Brennadam Inn had proven to be, and with her track record of mistaking elves for seating, her mother’s suggestion of teleporting home had had Jaina in quick agreement. “Now that they’re here, I’ve invited the Windrunners to stay in our guest rooms, given Lireesa is the de facto high elf leader for the time being,” she says, cracking into a smile at Jaina’s squeak of excitement. “Alleria is the one with bright blonde hair and the tattoo on her face. Vereesa’s is more silver. Lirath is the brother and I hear you’ve met Sylvanas.”

 

  Jaina nudges her in the ribs with her elbow. “So that’s five. How many must Kul Tiras house in total?”

 

  “Tide knows. We’re still counting. Cyrus thought he was onto a winner by suggesting they all line up, until they started doing that and we ran out of Brennadam. And then Kul Tiras.” Katherine slurps the last of her cup and sets it down on the table. “Then it started raining, so he decided to keep counting from within the Brennadam Inn.”

 

  “Where did he get to?”

 

  “Eight pints and four whisky chasers. He was still as pissed as a fart by midday.”

 

  She pours herself a new cup, lips pursed. “Frankly, Jaina, I couldn’t give the Tidemother’s left tit how many. At least they’re safe here. And I don’t want to know what they meant by ‘army of undeath’ any more than you do, but I’m suddenly that much more appreciative of the ocean between us and the Eastern Kingdoms.”

 

  She leans forwards. “And speaking of the sea. How is your catch of the day faring?”

 

  “Mother! She’s fine.” Rolling her eyes, Jaina finishes her own cup off and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “Her mother said she would stay with her.” But in spite of her best efforts, the smile drops from her face; Katherine leans closer. “I haven’t dared ask her again about whatever happened to send them fleeing. Has Lireesa told you anything about-?”

 

  “Some of it. I’ll tell you when the time is right.” Her hand squeezes Jaina’s shoulder. “Let her work it through, Jaina. I know you mean well, but by the Tides, you can be intense when you want to talk something out. Your sixteenth birthday was terrifying. I was waking up in cold sweats, imagining you stood at the foot of the bed demanding a change to the buffet menu.”

 

  “I maintain that lobster was a poor choice for the entrée.”

 

  “Your brother cooked it. With love. If a little too much salt.”

 

  “You’re only proving my point.”

 

  “So, it was a little mushy,” a surly voice mutters behind them, and Jaina turns to Derek, a single bedpost held in one hand. “But the flavours were good, right?”

 

  “Derek, half our guests were in bed for a week.”

 

  “But that means half our guests _weren’t_ in bed for a week, which I would call a close victory.”

 

  Jaina eyes the bedpost. “Is this a new improvised weapon, or a fashion statement that I’m too sensible to understand?”

 

  “I’m trying to build a bed for Miss Sylvanas before we get too far into the evening.” He throws the bedpost a look as though it had insulted his patronage. “But it went a bit wrong. So Tan came to help me, and then things went even more wrong.”

 

  Jaina sighs, lifting herself from the comfy chair and hugging Katherine briefly about the shoulders. “Come on then. I’ll give you a hand. Only one, though, I’m not that helpful.”

 

  Derek hums under his breath as he leads her down the corridor and into the guest quarters, twirling the bedpost in his hands. “She’s looking a lot better, by the way,” he says, glancing back to her with a grin. “Miss Sylvanas. Got the colour back into her cheeks. She has the loveliest nickname! The elves all call her _Lady Moon._ Suits her, don’t you think? I told them we usually call you Madam Smartarse. Hopefully it’ll stick.”

 

  “I hope so too, Boulder Brain.”

 

  Lady Moon. He’s right. It does suit her.

 

  Derek nudges open the door and strides back in, beckoning her alongside him. “Jaina has come to save the day, Tandred- Tandred?”

 

  “Hi, Jaina,” comes a sad little voice from somewhere beneath the tangle of bed slats. “Nearly there.”

 

  Perched on the chaise before the window, the golden-haired elf- Alleria, it must be- quickly stifles a giggle with her spare hand. Even now, hours after the wonderful reunion on the _Lady Katherine_ , the family is huddled tight around Sylvanas, who looks round and-

 

  And smiles at Jaina as though she were the dusky sunlight warming her shoulders.

 

  Returning the beam with a slightly dazed grin, Jaina kneels down beside the pile. “Knock knock, Tan.”

 

  “Ahoy, Jaina. This is all Derek’s fault, by the way.”

 

  “Stow it, I have witnesses! And we nearly had this bit done.” Derek motions to the slats. “Didn’t we, Sylvanas? We were just connecting everything up to the headboard.”

 

  Sylvanas’s brow creases into a frown. “Is that what you were doing?”

 

  Sighing deeply, Jaina starts digging at the slats. “And dare I ask how that was going?”

 

  “Poorly,” Tandred’s voice says. “Can’t figure out why.”

 

  “No?”

 

  “No.” Derek shrugs. “It was fine while Tandred was balancing everything on his back.”

 

  “He still is!” comes an indignant hiss from beneath the slats.

 

  “Well, do a better job of it, then!” Derek turns desperate eyes to the Windrunners. “Surely you sophisticated elves have some sort of incantation that could do all this for us poor landlubbers?”

 

  “We do,” the silver-haired sister says, “but we have to offer a small child as a sacrifice.”

 

  There’s a thud and a yelp from beneath the slats. “What?! Really?” And, as the Windrunners descend into laughter: “Right. A joke. Very funny, Miss Vereesa.”

 

  “Speaking of sacrifices,” the golden-haired woman says, shooting Sylvanas a look, “I wanted to thank you, Master Proudmoore. I haven’t seen Sylvanas in ruffles like _this-_ ” she flicks the fabric of Derek’s spare shirt, and Sylvanas flushes red- “since she was barely three summers old! You look so fetching, sister dearest. Oh, and thanks for dragging her from the water too, I guess.”

 

  Sylvanas turns pleading eyes to her mother. “One more trip to the ocean, before you bar me from sailing forever. _Please._ I just have some refuse I need to lob back into it.”

 

  Snorting inelegantly, Jaina glances back to Sylvanas, and eyes sparkling with mischief meet her own. “You know, Derek,” she says, her grin widening, “you might not have had to resort to sacrifices if you weren’t using the side panel as the headboard.”

 

  Derek deflates. “Alright, you’re good,” he mutters.

 

  “Jaina!” The slats clatter again. “Stop showing off and give me a hand. I’ve got a splinter in my arse.”

 

  “Tandred!”

 

  “Not with the splinter! Tides, Jaina, I can do that part.”

 

  Between the three of them, they manage to get the bedframe off the ground, cursing whatever heartless furniture maker supplied Proudmoore Keep with such a contraption; Tandred gets a cheer from the elves when his messy blond head finally surfaces above the slats, mock bowing in their direction until Derek throws the bedsheets over him. It comes together bit by bit, a little wonky, creaking ominously when the mattress is dumped on top, and in truth it’s held together with a lot more arcane than it is nails.

 

  The expression on Sylvanas’s weary face when she crawls onto it and spread eagles over the downy cotton sheets is worth any number of splinters in delicate places. For Jaina, anyhow.

 

-0-0-

 

  “I’m glad you’re finding this funny, Katherine.” Lady Waycrest paces, hands clasped tightly behind her back; her husband is perched on the easy chair beside her, watching Lord Stormsong throw his handful of darts at the board with placid eyes. “I merely asked whether they understand what a knife and fork are for.”

 

  Wiping her eyes, Katherine forces the smile off her face. “Yes, Meredith. They’re well aware of how to use a knife and fork. I think a handful have even progressed to spoons. We’ve separated those to try and domesticate them.”

 

  Lady Waycrest shoots her a gimlet-eyed look. “Regardless of how- civilised- they truly are, Drustvar is no place for creatures as sensitive to magic as these claim to be! Think what the Heartsbane could do if they were caught unprepared.”

 

  “Have you seen them shoot?” Mayor Roz throws her a toothy grin. “Two elves defeated a fully grown _ettin._ A witch would be sport to them.”

 

  “Ettins don’t enchant anyone,” Lady Waycrest snaps back. “And they’re thicker than most of your Town Guard. Try twisting your hand as you throw, James. You’re a little off to the left.”

 

  “No, they use the closest human as a club instead. Preferable for you?” Roz shoots her a withering look. “Oh, nicely aimed, Lord Stormsong.”

 

  “Thank you, Roz.”

 

  Katherine pinches the bridge of her nose; Tandred reaches to take the proffered darts from Lord Stormsong. “With all due respect, Meredith, we had no plans for accommodating the elves in Drustvar as it stood. Boralus is expanding and the extra homebuilding will be a boon for our tradesmen-”

 

  “A very insular view!” Lord Stormsong huffs, eyes still on the dartboard. “Boralus is not the centre of the universe, Lord Admiral. Daelin’s Fort needs workers, Mariner’s Row is being rebuilt, and they’re all housed in Brennadam as it is! Put a bit more power into it, Tandred, you’re nearly there.”

 

  “If by ‘housed’ you mean three to a bed in the Brennadam Inn? Then yes. I found an elf sleeping on the banister yesterday night. Good shot, Tan.”

 

  “And I found your Harbourmaster asleep on the front doormat cuddling a signpost.”

 

  “Cyrus said he’s sorry and he’ll find out where he got it from when everything stops spinning.”

 

  “A quick question,” Lady Waycrest interjects. “If your harbourmaster is hungover in Brennadam, who’s controlling shipping in and out of the Harbour?”

 

  “Derek. We’ve only had two minor collisions. Relatively minor. If it’s still floating, then it’s minor.”

 

  “Back to the elves! Do they farm, then?” Lord Stormsong raises his eyebrows expectantly, watching Tandred aiming his final dart. “Surely they must farm! They hunt well enough. I never thought I’d say it, but I’m starting to miss saurolisk meat pie- oh, Tidemother’s arse cheek, you beat me again, Tandred.” He claps him on the shoulder with a hefty sigh. “I tell you what. Any who can farm, I will personally see to re-settling them.”

 

  “Thank you, James,” Katherine says, a grin spreading over her face. “I’ll be sure to relay that.”

 

  “He’s not getting all of them! What about fishing? They could settle away from the Crimson Forest.” Lady Waycrest folds her arms. Her husband nods. “You’re being very vague with the details here, Katherine.”

 

  “You didn’t want any of them a minute ago!”

 

  “Well, I changed my mind.”

 

  Katherine rubs a hand over her forehead. “I don’t know the details. I don’t even know their true sensitivity to magic.” Footsteps pad along the corridor outside. “They have a large military.”

 

  Lady Waycrest snorts. “Perfect. Perhaps we should direct them to an island that hasn’t known peace for three hundred years.” She sweeps a hand out. “Would the Zandalari like some guests?”

 

  “Don’t be so facetious.” A shadow appears in the doorway. Katherine opens her mouth to speak-

 

  “I’m being quite serious! And what if they…” Lady Waycrest’s voice drops. “What if,” she hisses, leaning closer, “they try to _breed_ with humans?”

 

  “Meredith!” Katherine reels back. “Come now!”

 

  “Can they breed with humans? What would happen to the offspring? What would their ears look like?” Lady Waycrest’s face twists. “Do they do things to their young? I heard they cull the weakest of their brood-”

 

  “Hello, Sylvanas,” Tandred says, loudly.

 

  The entire room looks up as one to the elf stood in the doorway, clad in Derek’s least ruffled shirt and seawater-stained leather leggings.

 

  “In hindsight,” Lady Waycrest mutters, “probably should have checked whether they speak our language.”

 

  But Sylvanas looks instead to Katherine. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” she says, fiddling with the ruffles around her neck. “I just wanted to know where I might find something to eat. Lirath’s hungry. As always.”

 

  “I’ll get Jaina to show you to the kitchens.” Katherine shoots a poisonous look at Lady Waycrest. “Just straightening some things out, dear. I’m sorry you had to hear that.”

 

  Sylvanas merely offers Katherine a wan smile. “I’m afraid otherwise he resorts to eating the nearest human. Being the youngest of our brood, he’s vicious. We used to hunt him guards from Lordaeron, but well…” Her eyes slide to Lady Waycrest’s crimson face. “I suppose a noble would do.”

 

  Katherine just manages to force down a smile at the squeak of protest from Lady Waycrest. “I’ll send word to the chef. Would he like them poached? Fried? Maybe a little beer batter?”

 

  “Medium well. Thank you, Lady Proudmoore.” She offers Tandred a toothy grin that shows off every long, sharp fang. “Don’t bother with cutlery. He likes to rip it up himself.”

 

  “Be sure he does it on the rug, dear.”

 

  “Alright, alright, I get it,” Lady Waycrest mutters. “My humblest apologies.”

 

  Sylvanas offers her a little bow. “Some of the humans from Lordaeron took to calling us ‘knife ears’ or ‘mana junkie’. They would stick straw to their own ears and affect accents to ridicule us.” She picks up a dart from the table and, with the briefest of glances at the dartboard, throws it straight into the dead centre. “My sisters and I got into the habit of shooting the straw off their heads. They usually stopped after that.”

 

  Chuckling at the gaping Lady Waycrest, Lord Stormsong pushes past Tandred to hold a hand out to Sylvanas. “Very pleasant to meet you, Miss Sylvanas. My name is Lord James Stormsong. Can I interest you in a place on a darts team?”

 

-0-0-

 

  “But why? Why would you spend your evenings throwing sharp bits of metal at a cork board of circles?”

 

  “It’s fun.” Jaina can’t help but laugh at the look on Sylvanas’s face, both of them perched on the creaky bed, nibbling at a platter of smoked fish. This late, the Keep is quiet, the peace only broken by Lireesa Windrunner’s snores next door. “Tandred likes it. Father does too. Mother beats the socks off them both.”

 

  “She wasn’t playing tonight.”

 

  “No, she likes to let Tandred win on occasion.” She fixes Sylvanas with a grin. “He said you weren’t even _looking._ ”

 

  “I am… was, Ranger-General of all Quel’Thalas. I can hit a bird in the eye. Flying.”

 

  “You have to show me!”

 

  A smile tugs at Sylvanas’s lips. “As soon as I have wood to craft a bow. Perhaps I will wait until Lady Waycrest is not within firing range. The temptation might overwhelm me.”

 

  “I am sorry. That’s hardly the impression of Kul Tiras we wanted to give.” Jaina leans closer, reaches to lay her own hand over Sylvanas’s. “Someday I’ll show you Drustvar. Maybe a boating tour, if your mother ever lets you close to anything bigger than a puddle. It’ll explain so much.”

 

  “I think I’ve seen it. Dark, dreary, snowy cliffs?”

 

  “Dark and dreary could be most of Kul Tiras, but yeah, pretty much. You’ve been here before?”

 

  Sylvanas nods, snaffling another mouthful of salmon. “Many years ago. We scouted.”

 

  “We haven’t seen elven vessels in these waters in three hundred years!”

 

  She shrugs. “Bit cold.”

 

  “… True. But Drustvar isn’t tolerant of anything, hasn’t ever been, not really. Not everyone will be like her.”

 

  Sylvanas merely shakes her head. “Some will be,” she says. “Humans are often scared of that which they don’t understand. That which they have been frightened into fearing. When you touch me-” she wraps her fingers around Jaina’s, blessedly seeming impervious to the hitch of Jaina’s breath- “I feel the power on your skin. King Terenas II of Lordaeron had an advisor who enjoyed setting a thick cloud of arcane in the air whenever my mother and I travelled to Lordaeron to speak with their royals, knowing that both of us would leave with splitting headaches and nauseous bellies. We were sport to him.” Her hand is still in Jaina’s. “You’re not like that, but we will find those who are.”

 

  “Is it painful? When I touch you?”

 

  “No.” A soft smile. “I find it comforting.”

 

  Jaina quickly swallows the warmth rising in her chest. “I don’t imagine that helped after the whisky.”

 

  “No.” Sylvanas looks down. “It’s been some time since I was lulled to sleep quite that quickly.” And Jaina watches in horror as the smile fades from her face. “A long, long time,” she finishes, voice barely above a murmur.

 

  Jaina squeezes her fingers.

 

  “I cannot yet bring myself to tell my mother what happened. Not so soon after Ann’da… after our father.” Silvery blue eyes meet hers, and the sadness in them is so raw and so deep a lump of sympathy rises in Jaina’s throat. “It is far easier to hide behind sarcasm and bury myself in the mundane. But soon I may not have a choice.”

 

  Jaina swallows hard, reaches to wrap her other arm around Sylvanas. “You have a listening ear whenever you need it. Not as fancy as yours, but an ear all the same.”

 

  Clearing her throat, Sylvanas takes a few deep breaths. Rubs at tired eyes, and finally, with an effort, conjures up a watery smile. “If any of my siblings ever become too irritating, you should know one thing about elven ears. They are _very_ ticklish.”

 

  Jaina tightens her hold. “And what does it mean when they twitch? Like yours are doing now.”

 

  “Oh. Erm. Comfortable,” Sylvanas says quickly. “Warm. Full. Yeah.”

 

  “… Right. I’ll let you sleep then.” The ears droop, just a little. “I’ll see you first thing in the morning.”

 

  “Goodnight. Thank you for the food, and for listening to me.” Sylvanas can’t quite meet her eyes, a delicate flush rising in her cheeks. “I’m sure I will be more pleasant company when I’ve rested.”

 

  Jaina shrugs. “At least I know a sure-fire way of making you laugh now.”

 

  “ _Anar’alah,_ I should never have betrayed our elven secrets.” But she’s smiling as she says it. “May Belore find you rested and set you aglow.”

 

  “Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

 

  Sylvanas’s nose scrunches up. “What?”

 

  “Sleep well, Sylvanas!”

 

  Jaina only just manages to hold her laughter until the end of the corridor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'I can hit a bird in the eye, flying' is an unused voice line of Sylvanas's from WCIII. *drops head* imma nerd
> 
> Sorry this has taken so long!!! and sorry this chapter was a little less humorous. more humour next chapter!!


	5. Chapter 5

  “Jaina?”

 

  Face smushed comfortably into the pillow, Jaina groans. “No. Not wake up time yet. Ask Derek.”

 

  “… Jaina?”

 

  “Tandred. Down the hall, second door on the right, and yell really loudly. Not Jaina’s wake up time yet.”

 

  “ _Jaina!_ ”

 

  “If it’s Brother Therold about the cadets’ training pool, then I’m sorry ‘bout the roof. The waterspout’s an… extra feature.” She bats at the warm body above her. “I put a sign up!”

 

  The covers are ripped from her face and a sleepy Jaina stares blearily up into wide silvery eyes. “Sylvanas?” The word comes out before she’s even fully conscious, blinking owlishly. “You- you alright? Nightmare?”

 

  “No! The sky! Look!” Strong arms shove Jaina upright and push her towards the window. “It’s- it’s _red!_ ”

 

  “Erm. Yes. Yes, it is.”

 

  There’s a dusky red hint to the early morning cloud cover, and it’s far too early for Jaina’s brain to function. “That’s right?”

 

  The bed rocks and Jaina yelps as the duvet is ripped from her nice toasty feet, a split second before her boots are shoved onto them. “Is it the Heartsbane? The witches your father mentioned? Or have the Scourge caught us- we must prepare! I will protect you as you protected me-”

 

  “Sylvanas, calm down- it’s totally mmph!” She’s cut off by a mouthful of her own cloak. “Mmph-vanas!”

 

  “I will go and rouse your brothers-”

 

  Spitting out her cloak, Jaina snorts. “Good luck with that. If it’s not my wake up time, it’s definitely not Derek’s wake up time. Sylvanas, stop that, we’re all completely safe, all it means is it’s going to-” Her woolly hat is shoved down over her eyes. “Rain today! It means it’s going to rain today.”

 

  “There are surely structures on higher ground that can- what?” The hands frantically tying her cloak in place pause. “It’s… going to rain?”

 

  “Yes! Promise! There’s a saying in Kul Tiras. Red sky at night, sailor’s delight; red sky in the morning, sailor’s warning.” Patting somewhere she hopes is vaguely Sylvanas-orientated, Jaina smiles reassuringly. “So it’ll get wet a bit later on.”

 

  “… Oh.”

 

  The bed creaks in protest as Sylvanas’s weight slides back off it. “I am sorry,” she mutters. “Ah. And-” The hat is pulled from her head. The bright scarlet of Sylvanas’s cheeks makes the clouds look grey in comparison. “Sorry about that too.”

 

  “It’s fine.” Jaina deposits the hat on her bedside table and pushes herself up, rubbing her eyes. “Why have you got Mother’s darts?”

 

  “They were close and they were sharp.”

 

  “Fair points. Pun not intended.” Even the tips of Sylvanas’s ears are beet red. “Please don’t be worried. At least I know to take my umbrella today.”

 

  “Um…brella?”

 

  Dropping her cloak on the floor beside her bed, Jaina motions towards the clustering of clouds. “You don’t have rain, I gather.”

 

  “The air becomes humid occasionally.”

 

  “Ah. Well. It’ll be… a new experience,” Jaina says, trying and failing to sound cheery. She wipes some of the sleep from her eyes. “The first of many Kul Tiran novelties I will be introducing you to. The next one will be called a lie-in.”

 

  “Is that a military tactic?”

 

  “No, but with how strictly it’s enforced in this household, it may as well be. Besides, you’ve seen the most horrifying thing in Kul Tiras now. You’re prepared for any new practice these islands have to throw at you.”

 

  “Lady Waycrest’s dress?”

 

  “Near, but nay,” Jaina returns in her deepest Kul Tiran burr, kicking her boots off. “None but the most seasoned seadog may see the ab’orrence of Jaina Proudmoore with bedhead an’ live to breathe the tale to their brethren at the bar.”

 

  In spite of her fluorescent face, Sylvanas manages a soft chuckle. “Erm. Aye. M’lady.”

 

  Jaina grins through her yawn. “See, now you’re getting it.”

 

  “Me hearty?”

 

  “Bit too much.”

 

  “Duly noted.”

 

  She straightens her borrowed nightshirt before offering Jaina a crisp bow. “My sincerest apologies for disturbing you, Lady Proudmoore. I hope you enjoy the rest of your sleep.” And she strides out of the room, giving Jaina a glimpse of long, bare legs before she’s around the corner.

 

  Flopping back, Jaina fumbles for her alarm clock.

 

  “Four twenty-eight…?! If this is when she wakes up, I’m going to need some more of Derek’s whisky.”

 

-0-0-

 

  “While you were enjoying your rest, my mother sent word to say she has assembled our Farstriders, the elite Rangers of Quel’Thalas. And that they are to aid your tidesages with the task our noble Prince has bestowed upon them, of re-floating the _Anasterian’s Grace_. Yes, she does mean the same one that got far too intimate with the rocks off Stormsong Valley… apparently our esteemed King really, genuinely, wants it back. Molluscs and all.” Sylvanas has a certain agitation to her step, shoulders taut and ears tall and alert. Jaina, on the other hand, is curled around a cup of tea and will not be unfurling any time soon; at the other side of the breakfast table, Daelin is making a valiant attempt to keep his own eyes open. “Farstriders would normally meet for seven in the morning, but there was something of a panic within the quel’dorei housing this morning.” She can’t quite meet Jaina’s eyes. “It appears I was… not the only one who was a little alarmed by the clouds turning red.”

 

  “Oh, Tides. Is everyone alright?”

 

  Sylvanas shrugs with one shoulder. “We only had a few go in the harbour. The elves responsible for the livestock loose in Tradewinds have been tasked with rounding it up. My mother has ordered the Rangers who managed to stay on dry land to carry out emergency repairs for the Inn roof.” She smiles wanly at Daelin’s enquiring look. “Some high elves have a tendency to climb up things when they’re afraid. They don’t usually come back down quite so quickly.”

 

  “I’m sure Wesley will see the funny side of it.” Jaina licks a stray drop of tea from the rim of her mug. “Nice new roof and a surprise high elven visitor, it probably made his Monday.”

 

  “ _High_ elven visitor?” Daelin straightens up, eyes sparkling. “You’re sure high elf is right?”

 

  _Oh, no._ Jaina groans, dropping her forehead onto her arm. “Don’t, Father. Please. Spare us both.”

 

  “Don’t what?” Sylvanas glances between them.

 

  Daelin’s grinning in full force now. “Well, from what you describe, it sounds more like a…”

 

  “ _Father, no…_ ”

 

  He sweeps an arm out. “Low elven visitor!”

 

  There’s silence. Jaina squeezes her eyes shut and groans deep in her throat.

 

  “Erm.” Sylvanas clears her throat. “Should I laugh?”

 

  “No,” Jaina mutters. “Please don’t.”

 

  Daelin jumps up, face still split by a goofy gurn. “Well, you know, _high_ elven. Like-” he lifts his hand up- “high up. And then the poor elf wasn’t so high up. Because… Tides, that _was_ a bad one.”

 

  “Even for you, Papa.”

 

  “Oh. I see.” Sylvanas lifts a hand and drops it back to her waist. “As in height. _High_ elven.”

 

  Jaina drains the last of her mug and places it in front of her father. “I don’t know if high elves have a word for this, Sylvanas, but in Kul Tiras, we have a thing called dad jokes. Awful, terrible jokes that only dads think of. Welcome, and I’m sorry.”

 

  “I’ll get you laughing at me yet. Though this lot are usually laughing at me when I haven’t made any jokes.” Sweeping the two mugs up with one hand, Daelin claps Sylvanas on the shoulder with the other; she staggers forward a step. “Though please tell me _low elven_ isn’t some sort of slur. I heard what you said to Lady Waycrest, and I like my ears how they are.”

 

  Rubbing her arm, Sylvanas shakes her head. “To insult another elf, we would say _kim’jael_ \- little rat. Well, if my mother was within earshot.”

 

  Daelin leans closer. “And if she weren’t?”

 

  “ _Danil menoor._ It means mountain of-”

 

  “You finish that sentence, Sylvanas Windrunner, and you can go and help repair the Inn roof with the rest of your Rangers.”

 

  “ _Minn’da,_ how wonderful to see you, I was just going to do some exercises, we shall talk again soon,” echoes behind the high elven blur heading for the back doors.

 

  “SYLVANAS!” Jaina grabs the umbrella from its bin and throws it javelin-style after her; Sylvanas snatches the pink projectile sailing into her face. “Sorry! Take that!”

 

  “Thank you!” comes the faint reply.

 

  Shaking her head, Lireesa turns back to Jaina and Daelin. “It means ‘mountain of shit’. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to tease her. Besides, her day will improve vastly when she gets down to Tradewinds and hears just who gave which patrons of the Inn an early morning wake-up call.”

 

-0-0-

 

  “The roof tiles were slippery!” Flopping down onto an upturned crate, arms tightly folded, Alleria scowls at the pile of screeching high elf that is her sisters. “You don’t get to poke fun at me, Sylvanas, you fell off a ship!”

 

  “I did not, however, land on anyone,” Sylvanas gasps. “But at least you’ve met Lord and Lady Waycrest now!”

 

  And she and Vereesa drop back down, howling with laughter.

 

  “I’d like to know what in Belore’s name you said to them, Syl,” Alleria mutters, cheeks red. “The first words out of Lady Waycrest’s mouth were _don’t eat me!_ ”

 

  With the helpless cackling of her sisters and the racket of shouting and bleating coming from the market, she almost misses the footsteps approaching behind her. Almost. “If you’ve come to have fun at my expense, Lirath,” she mutters, “you’ll have to join the queue.”

 

  “I will later, when we’re sure Sylvanas won’t pass out with the exertion.” Arms wind round her belly. “I’m grateful you didn’t eat Lady Waycrest. She sounds quite bitter. And what in the Sunwell’s name is going on in there?”

 

  “Minn’da asked Lor’themar and Rommath to get the sheep under control.” An angry bleat and an elven yelp make them both wince. “They should count themselves lucky. Halduron was tasked with capturing the-”

 

  Cries of warning sound behind them and Sylvanas and Vereesa are sent diving to one side by the bull thundering down the road, a single Farstrider thudding along in pursuit. “ _Bal’a dash,_ Ranger-General, I’ve got him!” Halduron yells, hair flying everywhere; Sylvanas has barely had time for a bemused salute before bull and ranger round the corner and they all cringe at the crash of falling timber.

 

  “I hadn’t got him,” comes the miserable call.

 

  Shaking her head, Sylvanas carefully examines both directions before grabbing Vereesa’s hand and cautiously crossing back to stand beside Alleria and Lirath. “Perhaps it’s a good thing Jaina sleeps the morning through, if this is the sort of chaos she is to expect from her guests. How is the Inn roof coming along?”

 

  “Better now that Velonara’s not sticking the tiles on upside down. I don’t suppose I’ll ever live that down, will I?”

 

  Sniggering, Sylvanas tilts her head to one side in mock consideration. “No. And as Ranger-General, it is my prerogative to take these incidents into consideration when allocating duties… hmm, land-based activities… how do you feel about livestock?”

 

  “It’s not the sheep that concern me. Rommath failed his Kirin Tor entry examination by setting his examiner, the room and his own parents on fire and I still have no clue how Lor’themar managed to hit himself in the face with a lance. He wasn’t even jousting. Vereesa had just asked him to hold it for her.”

 

  Sylvanas sighs. “To Brennadam with you then, Ranger-Captain. I promise I won’t tell the other Farstriders about the Waycrests’ uninvited alarm clock.”

 

  “That’s surprisingly considerate of you.”

 

  “I’ll tell them once we’re finished.”

 

  “You-!” Alleria lunges for her and Sylvanas dodges to one side, smirking. “Should’ve left you in the ocean!”

 

  Vereesa winces. “Lady Sun, please don’t say that-”

 

  Sylvanas twists out of the way of Alleria’s fresh dive. “Jealous that no gorgeous royal heir dragged you from the waves? I can throw you back in and keep my fingers crossed for you-”

 

  “ _Anar’alah belore_ STOP IT!” Vereesa’s choked cry has her sisters frozen in place, staring at her. “Just… just stop it. Stop joking about it like it’s nothing, like Sylvanas didn’t nearly _die_ and-”

 

  They throw their arms around her at the same time, Lirath jumping on the pile from the back, ignoring the looks from the humans cautiously filtering in and out of Tradewinds. “We’ll stop,” Alleria murmurs, glancing to Sylvanas, who simply nods. “We’re sorry. We’ll stop.”

 

  “I’ll tell on them if they don’t,” Lirath adds, face smushed against Vereesa’s back.

 

  “Thank you. You morbid creatures.” Vereesa exhales a shuddering breath, swiping furiously at whatever of her face she can reach past the gaggle of Windrunners pressed against her. “I wish you two could deal with these traumas like every other elf. Cry dramatically every five seconds, order an entire new wardrobe in black and take an unsuitable lover, but by the light of _Belore_ , stop with the sea jokes… and Lirath’s on the case now. I _will_ know.”

 

  Alleria cranes closer to kiss her forehead. “I’ll take the dramatic crying. Kael’thas always says I look beautiful and tragic when I cry- stop retching, Sylvanas, what are you, forty? Lirath, you’d look good in a black wardrobe, so Lady Moon, you need to find an unsuitable lover.”

 

  Sylvanas opens her mouth, only to jump and jerk a hand up to her forehead and the lock of her fringe hanging wet over her nose. “ _Anar’alah,_ was that-?”

 

  “What?” Alleria tips her head back and yelps as something cold and wet and large smacks her directly in the eye. “Water?”

 

  “I’m told to use this.” Sylvanas snatches the pink thing she’d arrived with up off the ground; her siblings squint at it. “It’s called an _umbrella._ It serves to keep you dry.”

 

  She points it at the sky. Nothing happens.

 

  “Supposed to.” She peers down at it. “Oh, I see, maybe you undo this-”

 

  “Well done, Sylvanas, you’ve broken it. _Anar’alah_ , there’s a reason Minn’da never trusted you with the baubles at Winter’s Veil.”

 

  “Must I recall the incredible spectacle that was Alleria Windrunner attempting to put the star on the village tree?”

 

  “In my defence, trusting any Windrunner with something that flammable is a terrible mistake.” Alleria takes the umbrella, running her fingers over it. “Some enchantment? Some sort of- eurgh! This rain is _cold!_ ”

 

  Lirath yelps and scuttles backwards as two large droplets splatter over his forehead, in the same moment the clouds overhead give an ominous rumble.

 

  Past the lock of sodden hair, she sees Sylvanas’s eyes flick to the humans darting beneath the archway and widen. “Inside. Now!”

 

  The heavens open.

 

  Within seconds, the siblings are clinging to each other, stumbling around like drunks as they throw their arms out to try to find shelter and Vereesa shrieks as her foot slips out and she topples onto the cobblestones just as Alleria’s hand clatters against a doorway and she and Sylvanas haul Vereesa to her feet and inside, and promptly duck back out to grab a screeching Lirath by the hood of his robes and tug him in too.

 

  For a moment, they simply stand, panting and squeezing their hair out in the gloom.

 

  “I have had quite enough of the seas of Kul Tiras without suffering them on land as well,” Sylvanas mutters, rainwater dripping off the tip of her nose. Even her eyelashes are stuck together, kohl streaking down her cheeks. “ _Belore_ , how is this island still afloat?”

 

  “I knew I should have brought my armbands,” Lirath mutters. “Just didn’t realise I’d need them for when we arrived.”

 

  Alleria flicks the tip of Sylvanas’s ear. “Speaking of _gorgeous_ royal heirs.” She quickly suppresses a grin as Sylvanas’s face flushes red. “I don’t suppose Jaina had any other helpful gadgets for you, Lady Moon? These humans seem fond of their umbrellas, yet it is proving as useful as a Drathir on a battlefield.”

 

  “Now, sister, I wouldn’t go that far. In a pinch, they do make excellent shields.” Sylvanas casts the downpour a sour look, and the umbrella an even dirtier one. “She told me to take it because the red sky heralded rain… it doesn’t even have the decency to be a tasteful colour.”

 

  “I have a newfound respect for clouds,” Vereesa mumbles, squeezing her sopping leathers.

 

  “Wait.” Alleria holds a hand up. “Jaina saw the red sky? Scant minutes ago, you were bemoaning that she had slept the whole morning.”

 

  There’s a pregnant silence. Alleria’s eyes widen.

 

  The blush on Sylvanas’s cheeks shoots up to the tips of her ears.

 

  “Did you…” Alleria has to take a breath to stop herself giggling. “Is it possible, Sylvanas of the Windrunner family, that I wasn’t the only one who panicked a little when they saw the sky had turned?”

 

  Sylvanas swallows hard, just as her reddened ears start to twitch.

 

  “Oh, Lady Moon, isn’t that adorable!” Lirath grapples her, yelping, into a bear hug. “You went to find Jaina when you were afraid! You never show other people your emotions! Well, except anger. Please tell me she gave you a hug! She looks like she gives good hugs!”

 

  She struggles out of his grip, hissing like a cornered panther. “At least I _calmly_ , and _sensibly_ , and _rationally_ found someone to ask, rather than jumping out of bed and promptly launching myself through someone’s roof!”

 

  “I was merely caught unaware by foreign weather conditions-”

 

  “Velonara said it was a good job she went arse-first,” Lirath interjects. “Even if it made the hole a lot big-mmph!”

 

  “We’re all getting distracted from the important question!” Alleria grabs Lirath by the shoulder to secure her hand over his mouth. “And that is- does Jaina give good hugs?”

 

  Every sibling turns, as one, to Sylvanas, who folds her arms and glares at the ground.

 

  “Well?” Alleria leans forwards.

 

  “Mmph?” Lirath interjects, eyes wide.

 

  Sylvanas bares her fangs, shoulders tensing. “She is the daughter of Kul Tiras’s Lord Admirals and an eminent mage of considerable power and therefore if she wishes to touch me, it is my duty as a representative of not only the family of Windrunner, but the Glorious Kingdom of Quel’Thalas, to allow her- _ow!_ Vereesa, my ribs are sore! Yes, she gives excellent hugs. Very warm. Just tight enough. There.”

 

  “Finally!” Alleria can’t help giggling. “See, that wasn’t so hard.”

 

  “Mmph-mph mm,” Lirath adds, nodding furiously.

 

  Scowling, Sylvanas turns on her heel and favours them with her back.

 

  _Belore, she makes this difficult._ Shaking her head, Alleria glances back to the doorway. “At least it seems to be easing off. I think we may have stumbled across the only continent where drowning is easier on land. Should one of us check on Halduron?”

 

  “Probably, but no,” Vereesa and Lirath mumble in unison.

 

  Scuffing her boot across the floor, Sylvanas gives her sodden hair another squeeze. “I’m sure Minn’da and her highly-trained team of Farstrider elite will have had the good sense to stay in the Brennadam Inn. Unlike us fools.”

 

-0-0-

 

  “Oh,” is all Sylvanas says, as she steps out of the portal to be greeted by a dozen sopping wet Farstriders and her soaked mother. “Right.”

 

  “And here I was, just telling your Farstriders that my dear prodigy would never be caught by a little water from the sky.” Lireesa pauses to wring her hair out, mouth set in a grim line. “Sylvanas, you must remember you are banned from any water-based activity for at least the next three hundred years.”

 

  “The water was rather insistent about it, Minn’da.”

 

  “I thought Jaina gave you the- what did she call it? A device that would keep you safe and dry?”

 

  “Ha! So did we!” Alleria throws it towards her mother, who catches it with catlike grace. “I haven’t seen Vereesa this sodden since the incident at Sunsail Anchorage.”

 

  “Incident? You didn’t even give me armbands-”

 

  “In fairness,” Lireesa sighs, pinching the brow of her nose, “we asked her to teach you to swim, and she did, just very abruptly- oh, _bal’a dash,_ Lady Proudmoore. Perhaps you can help us with this little conundrum of ours.”

 

  “Bal’a dash,” Jaina returns, in the thickest accent Sylvanas has ever heard. It’s a warm, charming sound, and she can’t help the smile she throws at Jaina, one that is instantly returned. “You all seem a little bit… well. A lot bit wet.”

 

  “ _Bal’a dash_ , Jaina.” Sylvanas quickly sinks into a deep bow, jerking one foot back to kick Alleria’s shin when her sister starts to giggle. “Unfortunately, your umbrella’s enchantments did not seem to work particularly well.”

 

  “By which we mean, not at all,” Lirath interjects.

 

  “That’s because it’s not enchanted.” Jaina’s eyebrows purse. “At least, it shouldn’t be. Runes can be a little tricky to aim sometimes, though I’m sure the kitchen table is more or less back to normal now. But no, the umbrella shouldn’t be.”

 

  “Then how do you intend for it to protect you?”

 

  Wordlessly, her eyes never leaving Sylvanas’s, Jaina reaches out and presses her thumb to the button on the base of the umbrella, and every high elf yelps and dodges away as it opens with a dull thud.

 

  “Next time, I know to do a full safety demonstration,” Jaina says with a smile as she hands it back to Sylvanas. “Just take it. It won’t eat you.”

 

  Doubtfully, Sylvanas grips the handle, leans the cool metal shaft against her shoulder. “And the rain… hits this. So you remain dry?”

 

  “More or less.”

 

  “Mmn.” She glances down to the little button. “And so this activates-”

 

  “No, don’t press that, _Sylvanas-_!”

 

  Jaina and the high elves behind her vanish in a pink blur as the umbrella snaps down around Sylvanas’s head.

 

  “I thought you said it wouldn’t eat me,” Sylvanas mutters into the nauseating pink fabric as she fumbles for the button. “No offence, Lady Proudmoore, but I may stick to the tried and tested cloak in the future.”

 

  “That is entirely fair enough,” Jaina says somewhere to her left, and a warm hand covers her own and sets it tingling as it presses her thumb back down and the umbrella opens again. “I’m sure the milliners of Hatherford will be more than happy to make something up for you when they get their wool back.”

 

  Lireesa frowns. “Back?”

 

  “Well, it’s still running around Tradewinds eating the Davenports’ produce at the moment.”

 

  “You’re telling me two of my finest rangers were bested by a herd of sheep, Lady Proudmoore?”

 

  “At least they weren’t the poor soul last seen chasing a bull down towards the Tideway.”

 

  Lireesa pinches the bridge of her nose. “I promise, Lady Proudmoore,” she says, eyes tightly shut, “my Farstriders are an elite fighting force, unequalled within the Alliance and Kalimdor, capable of eliminating an entire army from the treelines. But we may have to revisit the module of our training to do with sheep wrangling.”

 

  Sylvanas takes a step closer, straightening her spine. “My siblings and I,” she says, thudding her still-prickling fist against her chest, “the very spearhead of the Farstriders, will personally ensure the return of the mutton-heads to their rightful owners by the end of the day. And the sheep as well.”

 

  A grin curls Jaina’s lip, even as Vereesa and Alleria groan under their breath behind Sylvanas. “Very noble of you to offer, Sylv- Lady Windrunner. What about the bull?”

 

  “… We’ll pray to _Belore._ ”

 

  This time, the giggle does escape. “If you don’t mind, Lady Lireesa,” she says, offering Sylvanas one last smile before turning to her mother, “I will head for Hatherford and round up some shepherds to come get their flock.” She glances back to Sylvanas. “And I may have a small surprise for your Ranger-General, which of course must be kept a secret from her and her siblings.”

 

  Sylvanas tilts her head, tries to ignore her heart beating a little faster. “Does it bleat?”

 

  “No.”

 

  “Moo?”

 

  “No, and if it does, something’s gone horribly wrong.” She turns back to the soggy Farstriders and offers them a sympathetic bow. “Shorel’aran,” she says, in her thick, warming accent, and vanishes in a flurry of lilac sparkles.

“Nice girl,” Lireesa says, with a smile in Sylvanas’s direction. “You must have made a good impression.”

 

  _I suppose half-drowned is better than fully drowned._ But with Vereesa behind her, she simply offers her mother a nod.

 

  “To business.” The Ranger-Matriarch draws herself up to her full height and glares at Lirath until he slouches a little. “Now that we are here, and there is some blue in the sky… yes, some blue in the sky.”

 

  In the sudden silence, a few heads dart round, scanning the sky with narrowed eyes.

 

  “Ranger-Matriarch.” Velonara’s hand shoots up. “Permission to speak?”

 

  “Granted.”

 

  “Where is the blue in the sky?”

 

  “Erm. Over there.” Lireesa throws an arm out, and every Ranger turns towards the dark grey horizon. “Anyway, now that we’re here, we are to discuss the repair and re-floating of _Anasterian’s Grace_ in co-operation with our new Kul Tiran friends-”

 

  “Ranger-Matriarch?” Clea this time. “Permission to speak?”

 

  “Granted.”

 

  “Which bit of the _Anasterian’s Grace_ , the bit that’s mostly sunk or the bit that sort of splintered off?”

 

  “Yes, that bit.” Clea opens her mouth, but Lireesa’s already talking. “And further to reclaiming our ship, we must discuss how our company can best serve the ruling house for the time we are stranded here- as it seems in his infinite wisdom, our Prince wishes for us to return as one people, as soon as possible.”

 

  “I think my bunk was in the splintered bit,” Thyala mumbles.

 

  “Mine was in the sunken bit,” Anya pipes up from the back.

 

  “Thank you, Ranger Anya, for your insightful contribution. I know this order might seem…” Lireesa pauses, her eyes flickering to Alleria. “Strange. It may seem strange that our esteemed Prince would even attempt repairs when the ship is so badly damaged, but we are Farstriders and we have ever served the House of Sunstrider dutifully and without question. Well, everyone except Alleria.”

 

  “And Sylvanas,” Vereesa interjects.

 

  “And Sylvanas. Oh, how could I forget.”

 

  “And Lirath!” Sylvanas swerves to scowl at Vereesa. “And, come to mention it-”

 

  “ _Thank you, Ranger-General!_ ” Sylvanas quickly swivels back, arranging her features into something approaching polite innocence. Lireesa glares. “My point is, we will do whatever we must to recover the vessel that will hopefully carry us home. Yes, I am aware that the Kingdom of Kul Tiras has extended its welcome to us, and I am most sincerely grateful, but if our Royal Majesty has decided we will return to Quel’Thalas, then we will do what we must to get home swiftly and safely.”

 

  Sylvanas clears her throat. “Ranger-Matriarch, permission to speak?”

 

  “Granted, Ranger-General.”

 

  “Aside from the obvious drawback of exactly how many bits the ship is in- do you know what the humans’ plan is for re-floating them?”

 

  “The smaller parts I assume can be picked for the water. As for the main body of the ship, they plan to explode the section of hull caught around the rocks.”

 

  “What do you mean, explode-”

 

  Lireesa holds a hand up. “I know it sounds rather… radical… but I’m told it is the best way to prevent the ship from splintering any further.” She sighs. “I trust you can rescue Theron and his pet mage in a timely fashion. We must defer to the Kul Tirans on such a subject as ship recovery, Sylvanas, we are their guests and they are the experts, and I’m sure they know what they’re doing.”

 

-0-0-

 

  “So, Lord Admiral.” Sanders lowers his eyepiece. “How much explosive are we shoving down there?”

 

  “I would’ve said six barrels ought to do it,” their midshipman interjects, leaning against a crag in the cliff face. “Or sink it. One or t’other.”

 

  “Six?” Daelin frowns. “You’d blow it to Drustvar, George. She’s a hefty ship, to be sure, but there’s no need to take half the mainland with her. We can get most of it back to shore. Well, some of it, anyway. With a little of the Tidemother’s blessing, we can cobble something up and hide the worst of it before they need it back.”

 

  Sniffing, George scuffs his boots over the sand. “Why do they need the bloody thing made seaworthy again anyway? It’s a crock of shit if it splintered so easily. You’d never see one of Dorian’s vessels do that!” He jerks his thumb back to Dorian Atwater, sat on the beach observing the goings-on with her husband perched on her knee. “But the sooner it’s afloat, the sooner I can be back with my young lady in Plunder Harbour.”

 

  “Aye, about that,” Sanders says. “How come you returned with no clothes on?”

 

  George gives a throaty chuckle. “Well, when a beautiful lady asks you to worship her-”

 

  “What actually happened,” Daelin interrupts, his own spyglass fixed on the bulge where the hull cracks, “was he lost six successive games of poker to Lucille Waycrest and forfeited everything he had on him. I know, because Jaina was playing that same night and somehow ended up winning his overcoat.”

 

  In the sudden silence, he lets his gaze rove over the ship. A sturdy vessel, to be sure, with few weaknesses; clearly his assumption that the elves preferred land was a tad hasty. “Sanders! I believe four barrels ought to be plenty.”

 

  “What was that, Lord Admiral?”

 

  Heaving a sigh, Daelin holds a hand up, thumb tucked in. “One barrel for each finger, Sanders. Off you trot.” He waits for Sanders to stride down along the beach before lowering his spyglass and turning to George. “Simple language is best with Sanders, don’t you agree?”

 

  “Aye, Lord Admiral.” A pause. Daelin glances back to the elves gathered on the cliffs above, chattering amongst themselves in their melodic tongue.

_Mayhaps I can learn a few words from them before they set sail for home… though I’ll be sad to see them go. Especially Jaina’s young lady._

 

  “Erm… Lord Admiral?”

 

  He waves back to an elf deep in mimed conversation with what looks like a member of the Brennadam Town Guard. _Roz’ll be loathe to see them off too, come to think of it._ “Aye, George?”

 

  “D’you think there’s any chance of me getting my overcoat back? Awful nippy without it.”

 

  “You’d have to ask Jaina.”

 

  “That’d be a no, then.” At Daelin’s stare, he shuffles from foot to foot and clears his throat. “I may have got my feet frozen to the deck when I made some comments about her elven lady that she didn’t appreciate, Lord Admiral. Well. To be specific, about her elven lady’s attributes. Two in particular.”

 

  Daelin raises his eyebrows.

 

  “I’m talking about her-”

 

  “Breasts, yes, George,” interrupts a voice behind them, and Daelin grins as his wife leans in to kiss his cheek. “Try an apology. It’s not really Jaina’s colour anyway. Good morrow, Lord Admiral.”

 

  “Good morrow to you too, Lord Admiral.” He gives her a quick peck back. “You’ve spoken with Lady Lireesa?”

 

  “Extensively, and yes, their Prince is still set on sailing back to Quel’Thalas.” Her face softens at the sudden droop of his shoulders. “But in any case, the ship will need a lot of work before we can deem her seaworthy again.” She tucks her hand into his, both of them watching the tidesages submerge around the wreck. “I would have said a good six weeks.”

 

  “Aye.” They watch for a moment as the waters around the wreck roil, and the tidesages bob back up one by one. “Seems they’re almost ready. What’s the situation in Tradewinds?”

 

  “Woolly. The Windrunner siblings have arrived to relieve their colleagues.” Katherine’s lip quirks up into a wry grin. “Cyrus was on the approach to the Norwington Estate and saw a bull being chased by an elf. Poor man thought he was still drunk. Fifteen minutes later he saw an elf being chased by a bull and thought he’d best step in.”

 

  “And how did that go?”

 

  “Well, I received a message from the Anglepoint Guard that they’d spotted a bull chasing an elf and our Harbourmaster… but Derek’s grateful to be off harbour duty, at the very least.”

 

  “Good on him.” Daelin glances back at the wreck. “The tidesages are nearly back to shore-”

 

  He grabs Katherine and dives to the ground as the sea explodes and the shockwave sets the hills shuddering and sends the high elves skittering away from the cliff edge, the air thick with splinters of wood from the smoking blob of wood that is the remainder of the _Anasterian’s Grace_.

 

  Midway back along the beach, Sanders struggles upright, covered in debris. “Lord Admiral,” he calls, coughing into his fist, “and Lord Admiral, I don’t think that went-” What looks like a falling chunk of railing clonks him on the head. “Ow! According to plan.”

 

  “ _Tidemother’s arse cheek_ , no, that didn’t go according to plan,” Daelin growls. “How much did you use, you brine-brained maniac? I’m amazed we still have a beach, never mind a ship!”

 

  “You said one for each finger!” Sanders holds his hands up. “Eight fingers! I assumed you didn’t mean thumbs.”

 

  “FOUR! I said four!”

 

  “You trusted _Sanders_ to deliver your instructions? Daelin Proudmoore, have you been anywhere near your stash of-”

 

  “Lord Admiral,” a careful Thalassian-lilted voice says behind them, and Daelin closes his eyes to mutter a quick prayer to the Tidemother before turning to face a dusty and ruffled Lady Lireesa Windrunner. “Where… has our ship gone?”

 

-0-0-

 

  “They’re vicious! I’m telling you, Sylvanas, give them half a chance and they’ll rip the fingers from your hands-”

 

  “Lor’themar.” Face arranged into a carefully sympathetic expression, Sylvanas takes her Ranger-Captain by the arms. “Why don’t you and Lirath go and stand outside and get some nice fresh air.”

 

  “No, I won’t let you tackle them alone! They’re savages! Monsters! Especially…” Lor’themar’s wild eyes turn slowly and fixate on a single sheep, lounging on a stack of rugs idly chewing the cud. “That one,” he finishes in a horrified whisper.

 

  “Nice fresh air,” Sylvanas repeats, all but pushing him into Lirath’s arms. “Cool, fresh air.”

 

  Vereesa folds her arms, glancing round at the scattered herd. “Any sign of Rommath?”

 

  “He was here earlier.” Sylvanas eyes the accused sheep. “Though with the state Lor’themar was in, I doubt we’d get any sense out of him either. Vereesa, you go round to the left. I’ll go to the right. Alleria will round up any stragglers and we’ll pincer them into their pen. Sound rational?”

 

  “Far too rational for Ranger-Captain Theron.” Vereesa’s already moving off, crouched at the waist, her silent presence ushering the sheep mewling and bleating towards their pen as Sylvanas mirrors her on the other side of the market, their footsteps near silent on the hay-strewn floor. Ears canted back, limbs tense, they glance to one another and nod to start moving the clusters of sheep in together, closer to the gate of the pen.

 

  “In you go. That’s it. Follow the other woolly behinds,” comes Alleria’s voice from somewhere to Sylvanas’s right. “And avoid the butcher’s.”

 

  Vereesa catches Sylvanas’s eye to roll her own. “A truly noble feat, sisters,” she says dryly. “Our heroism will be sung of near and far.”

 

  “I did feel like mutton for our evening repast,” Sylvanas returns. The sheep lying on the rugs turns its head and two big dark eyes meet hers, just as its jaw stops moving. “Get on with you. Go on.”

 

  It blinks, languidly, and raises its chin a little.

 

  “Go on,” Sylvanas hisses. Each movement as sharp as a springpaw, she slinks round to urge it towards its flock, but the sheep merely stares back. “Vereesa.”

 

  “What?”

 

  “It won’t move.”

 

  “Don’t be so foolish, it’s a sheep. You’re the Ranger-General of Quel’Thalas.”

 

  “It doesn’t know that.”

 

  “Sylvanas, be reasonable,” Alleria mutters, already poised by the gate. “They’re vegetarian.”

 

  “By the Sunwell, must I do everything myself?” Abandoning the flock just before the gate of the pen, Vereesa creeps round to her sister’s side; the sheep flicks an ear in her direction. “Go. Shoo! Get on with you!”

 

  Its eyes never leave Sylvanas as it stretches and, unblinking, starts to chew again.

 

  “See?” Sylvanas hisses.

 

  “ _Anar’alah_ , Lady Moon, just grab it!” Alleria drops to a kneel, rubbing her thigh. “And be swift about it, I feel a cramp coming on.”

 

  Vereesa opens her mouth, only for both of them to jerk round at the sound of voices near the entryway. “Jaina and her shepherds!” she hisses.

 

  _I will not be caught in a staring contest with tomorrow’s roast dinner by Jaina Proudmoore!_ Glancing round, Sylvanas takes a single step backwards. “Alright, you stubborn sack of fleece, this has been fun,” she murmurs, reaching back towards the stall behind her and the rack of brightly-coloured umbrellas for sale. “But challenging me to a game is unwise, for I have a reputation of always winning-”

 

  “Sylvanas,” Alleria interrupts. “Could you save the moustache-twirling monologue for later?”

 

  She shoots her sister a withering look and grabs an umbrella to lunge forwards and snap it open an inch from the sheep’s face.

 

  It bolts, screeching with terror, into the pen, and Alleria slams the gate shut and flips the latch down.

 

  The door rattles. “Sylvanas? Alleria? Vereesa? It’s Jaina- can we come in?”

 

  Tugging Alleria up, Sylvanas dives for the counter of the umbrella stall and leans on it as though she has been lounging for hours. “Of course,” she calls back, elbowing Vereesa in the ribs to wipe the sly smirk off her face. “Everything is under control.”

 

  “Oh, good.” The door clatters open and Jaina glances from the sheep back to Sylvanas, beaming. “Nicely done.”

 

  The burly, tartan-clad Kul Tirans behind her quickly descend on the sheep, as Jaina wanders over to stand beside the sisters. “There may have been a little mishap with the re-floating of your ship,” she says softly. “Just possibly.”

 

  Alleria quirks an eyebrow. “How big a mishap are we talking?”

 

  Jaina shuffles on the spot. “About four barrels of explosive.”

 

  “WHAT?!”

 

  “I’m so sorry!” Jaina turns to Sylvanas, eyes wide. “My father has promised your mother a new ship, built as soon as our chief shipwright can manage. But for the time being… well, you may be here a little longer than you had hoped to be. I’m so sorry.”

 

  _Sorry? The last thing you should be is sorry, Jaina._

 

  Swallowing past the sudden lump in her throat, Sylvanas forces a smile onto her face. “While the circumstances are unfortunate,” she says, voice determinedly even, “we will endeavour to serve the ruling house of Kul Tiras in any way we can until we have a seaworthy vessel to make our way… home. And that includes the might of my Farstriders serving its people in any way they see-”

 

  “WHERE ARE THE SHEEP?”

 

  Sylvanas groans and drops her face into her hands as a dishevelled and wide-eyed Lor’themar bolts into the room, head jerking round. “Where are they? SYLVANAS! Where are they?”

 

  “The shepherds came and got them, Lor’themar, everything’s fine now-”

 

  “Rommath! Polymorphed himself! Said he would lead them into the pen as a sheep!”

 

  Sylvanas baulks. “He what? But how would he transform back?”

 

  “I’d already had two breakdowns, I don’t think he was thinking that far ahead,” Lor’themar wails.

 

  Alleria sighs, deeply, and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Do excuse me, Lady Proudmoore,” she says, and bolts for the wagon trundling away down the road, Vereesa and Lor’themar hot on her heels. “STOP! WAIT! ROMMATH HOLD ON WE’RE COMING!”

 

  “We’re competent sometimes,” Sylvanas mumbles, letting her face fall back into her palms. “Just sometimes.”

 

  “After how my father’s big plan turned out, I’d say we’re even.” A warm hand wraps itself around Sylvanas’s. The very tip of her thumb brushes Sylvanas’s cheek and she jumps at the soft tingling that spreads out across and up to her ear, leaving a delicious warmth in its wake. “And you get to spend the rest of the evening listening to my mother tearing him a new one.”

 

  There’s silence for a moment as Sylvanas, her hand still in Jaina’s, turns her head and lets her eyes fall shut. One ear swivels ever so slightly at the sound of Lirath tip-toeing away. “Jaina,” she begins, voice soft, “are you… channelling the arcane into my cheek?”

 

  “Maybe. I’ve never had the chance to try it with a high elf before. Is it uncomfortable?”

 

  “No, it isn’t.” She opens her eyes and meets Jaina’s gaze. “Not at all.”

 

  “SYLVANAS!” Alleria interrupts them by staggering through the doorway, arms full of loudly-protesting sheep. “I think I’ve found him,” she pants. “He just… seems very Rommath-like.”

 

  Jaina flicks a hand and the sheep wiggles with a squeak. “Sorry, Alleria.”

 

  “ _Anar’alah._ I was so sure.” She glares down at it. “It’s got his eyes. Big and stupid.”

 

  “Your surprise might have to wait,” Jaina murmurs, low enough that Sylvanas’s ears flick closer to hear properly. “Let me just go and get your mage back, alright?” And she jogs off down the road, leaving Sylvanas staring after her.

 

  She’s unaware that she’s smiling until Lirath throws his arms around her and taps her cheek. “Look at you,” he says, his own face stretched in an enormous beam. “Are you even upset about the ship?”

 

  “Only that you weren’t on it when it happened,” she hisses, and shoves him away, but the grin only grows. “We have our orders to find our way home, as given by our Prince, and we will follow them this time.”

 

  “Maybe you could have the wedding in Brennadam! The Ranger-General’s uniform would look _beautiful_ in Kul Tiran colours. The silver would really bring out your eyes. I could cultivate some sunflowers. Would you finally let us thread your hair with peacebloom? She’d have mageroyal of course, imagine that with a Thalassian silk dr- _owI’msorryI’mstoppingIpromise!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have no adequate apology for how long this has taken me so *clears throat* SORRY SORRY SORRY! i really hope it's funny enough and as always, any feedback is enormously appreciated :D also maaaaaaybe sylvanas and jaina are getting a little closer idk?
> 
> this chapter absolutely not inspired by the time a cow wandered into our village shop and got stuck in one of the aisles


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a fool of a Took who deleted my first set of notes so HERE WE GO
> 
> Enormous thanks to useless-lesbean for beta ing- you are an absolute STAR and thank you for inspiring a big ol' chunk of this chapter. For basically dragging this text out of me and being such an awesome beta reader. Much Savingnon Blanc for youuuuuu <3
> 
> And thank you brazenedMinstrel- sorry for the subconscious borrow of the 'lune' nicknaming and thank you for ok'ing me to use it! Please check out their fic Careless if you haven't already, it is wonderful.
> 
> And to all the wonderful people who encouraged me to get the bloody chapter up already and stop pissing about: thank you.

  “For the love of _Belore,_ Sylvanas, can you hold him still for one minute?”

 

  “I’m trying! He wriggles!”

 

  In the corner of the room, Jaina cranes her neck over the pile of scrolls and books to peer at the sisters scrambling to contain Rommath. “To be fair to him, I’d be in a bad mood too, if the highlight of my day had been acting as the rope in a tug of war between three high elves and a very angry wool farmer who kept calling me Floofers.”

 

  Even Sylvanas’s ears are red with the exertion of clinging to Rommath as he lunges yet again for the tasty straw spilling from the ripped sofa. “Jaina, I cannot stress- ow!- enough how I admire magi and their delicate arts, but any progress would preferably be made- _don’t eat that-_ sooner rather than- _that’s my finger you bleating fool-_ later-!”

 

  “It’s a lot more complicated when they’ve done it themselves,” comes Jaina’s miserable reply from behind the pile. “And it really doesn’t help when they start bleating fire, either.”

 

  She brushes absently at her singed trousers. “Fascinating, though, never seen that-”

 

  “Alleria- ALLERIA!” Sylvanas yells, scrabbling backwards as Rommath squints round at her and slowly lifts his tail. “Do something! NOW!”

 

  Casting around in desperation, Alleria snatches up the handful of forbs and waggles it in front of Rommath’s nose; he clatters forwards to snuffle them up, leaving Sylvanas huddled against the pile of books, chest heaving. “Tell me, sister. What egregious act could I possibly have committed to deserve babysitting a Polymorphed idiot who tried to set my eyebrows alight?”

 

  “It could be worse, _Lai’lune_. At least you’re not hosing Tandred off.”

 

  “His own fault.” Jaina lowers the book, eyebrows pursed. “What does that mean? _Lai’lune._ It’s beautiful.”

 

  “It’s the Thalassian for Lady Moon,” Sylvanas says, hoisting herself up and brushing off her borrowed shirt. “My mother nicknamed me so for my pale hair and for my silvery eyes.”

 

  “And how often you kept her up through the night with your screaming,” Alleria mutters.

 

  Sylvanas casts her a sour look. “Alleria used to sneak into my bedroom and place insects on my head as I slept. Peacefully. Having done no wrong to her in any way, shape or form whatsoever. It only stopped when Minn’da put a bell on her.”

 

  “Did I, or did I not, improve your fear of spiders?”

 

  “You did indeed, my dear _Lai’belore._ I now fill the spider with arrows and smack you in the face before crying.”

 

  “Derek used to do the same thing on occasion,” Jaina says absently, eyes back on the book. “He learned after the third frostbolt to the face. It’s a wonder he and Father still have three eyes between them.”

 

  Alleria opens her mouth to reply only for Rommath to lunge for the sofa again, and Sylvanas dives forwards to help her. “I am going to tan Lor’themar’s hide- if he ever- does anything- like this- again-! Sylvanas I can’t hold-!”

 

  “Quick, grab his- no for the love of _Belore_ not that did you learn nothing from Tandred’s misfortune!” And Sylvanas is promptly sent thudding face-first into the floor as Rommath belches a puff of smoke and scrambles to freedom. _“_ Alleria, catch him, quick-!”

 

  “Oh, let him,” Jaina sighs. “Maybe he just wants to stretch his legs.”

 

  Alleria sags to the floor with a sigh. “Maybe you’re… right, Jaina,” she concedes, flopping onto her side. “He did seem very enthusiastic.”

 

  “Maybe we were being a bit harsh, manhandling him like that,” Sylvanas mumbles.

 

  Jaina offers her that grin again. “It’s all in his best interests. Perhaps a little gentle treatment will make him less restless. Isn’t he just… doing what fire-breathing Polymorphed mage-sheep do?”

 

  Alleria cranes round to peer through the doorway. “He’s gone into your library, Jaina-”

 

  “GET BACK HERE, YOU WOOLLY SHIT!” screams the flash of mage careening down the corridor, leaving the sisters splayed panting on the rug.

 

-0-0-

 

  “You know, Daelin, I have made a lot of mistakes in my life.” A mug of tea in one hand and a bottle of rum in the other, Katherine Proudmoore paces the kitchen of Proudmoore Keep before her dusty, silent husband. A liberally splinter-covered Sanders, hunched by the door with his hands clasped behind his back, wisely remains silent. “I’ve been careless. I’ve been foolish. I’ve drunk myself into stupors and eaten portions of fried potato that gave Cyrus indigestion at the mere sight. I even produced Derek.”

 

  Sweeping into the room with a mug of tea in hand, Derek nods sagely.

 

  “And yet, Daelin. My buttercup. My sponge pudding. My _darling_.” Daelin shrinks into the upholstery, clinging ever tighter to the tricorn hat on his lap. “I have never- not at any point, no matter what else I have done- begun a _salvage attempt_ by entrusting explosives to a man who can only go up rigging and not down-”

 

  “Can’t see below me,” Sanders says. “Not my fault my belly gets in the way.”

 

  “-and finished it by sending the ship to the depths in several hundred little pieces. Stop crushing your hat, Daelin, it’s the only part of you that can claim to be smart.”

 

  “Oh, a few more’n that.” Sanders glances between the Lords Admiral. “Waycrest’s Theory of Exothermic Relativity to Matter would put it at somewhere shy of two thousand.” He attempts a smile. “Though the tidesages would be able to take volume of water and brininess into account. And fish. Am I helping?”

 

  “Not especially,” Daelin mumbles.

 

  There’s a pause, as Katherine brings her mug to her lips to take a dainty sip, and then the rum for a generous gulp.

 

  Daelin sighs, deeply. “I think we all stand in agreement that I have not covered myself in glory today. I’ll hang my hat up. Get myself a snifter while I’m out there.”

 

  “Hang it neatly,” Katherine says, voice so cold Jaina could have conjured it.

 

  “Of course, darling,” echoes from the hallway. “Wouldn’t like to lose my reputation for paying attention to detail… oh, wait.”

 

  Derek sups at his own tea, a badly-hidden smirk on his face. “Go easy on him, Mother. Didn’t you blow up a castle once?”

 

  “It was a manor and the spiders are gone now. But your father absolutely had to out-do me, didn’t he? An entire ship. One that did not even belong to the Proudmoore Admiralty. One that we were supposed to be bringing in and placing in the _capable_ hands of our shipwrights. And before he says it again, pointing out that bits of it were definitely floating was _not_ funny. At all.”

 

  “Is that a dad joke?”

 

  Pinching the bridge of her nose, Katherine looks up at the ruddy-faced high elf in the doorway and forces a smile. “In this case, Sylvanas, the whole husband is a joke. How’s Jaina doing with Rommath?”

 

  “GET AWAY FROM THAT MANUSCRIPT, YOU SLIPPERY SACK OF FLEECE!” comes screeched from the library down the hall.

 

  “That well, huh,” Derek says.

 

  Sylvanas wipes her forehead with the back of her hand and thuds a weary hand against her chest in a sloppy salute. “He had elven ears, for a couple of minutes. And I’m afraid he took a bite out of your sofa.”

 

  “How wonderful. A big bite?”

 

  Sylvanas shuffles. “It’s stuffed with straw. I think he’s hungry.”

 

  “As long as he’s stopped defecating on my nice rug. And my son.”

 

  “I did try to warn him-”

 

  “Don’t you worry yourself, dear. By twenty-five, I’d have expected Tandred to know which end of the sheep to avoid.” Katherine reaches over to pat Sylvanas’s arm. “Here comes the man of the day.”

 

  Re-emerging from the cloakroom, Daelin straightens his spine and offers Sylvanas a rather rueful salute. “Ahoy, Ranger-General. Just fetching myself a little something to take the edge off the day.” And he promptly takes a gulp of his hat.

 

  In the confused silence that follows, broken only by Daelin spluttering on fluff, Katherine peers round him. “Perhaps you might try the whisky hung on your coat hook, dear.”

 

  Daelin coughs. “I knew I married you for a reason.”

 

  As he hurries out to exchange tipple and tricorn, Katherine casts begging eyes to her son. “Derek, would you be a dear and pour our guest some warm milk? And you can fetch the cat’s dinner for me while you’re out there. I’ve got a massive headache.”

 

  “Of course, Mother. Maybe a nice relaxing drink for yourself? I can do you a wool beanie or a nice yellow sunhat.”

 

  “Very funny. On with you. And don’t you dare call Jaina to heat it up, not after last time.” The moment Derek’s arse is off his plush chair, she motions Sylvanas into it. “I hear she has her hands full anyway, with her woolly pyromaniac friend.”

 

  Somehow managing to collapse elegantly into the chair, Sylvanas tilts her head to one side. “Jaina is a very powerful mage, has she not mastered her fire magicks?”

 

  “Quite the opposite, dear. She’s very enthusiastic. I’m still scraping bits of burnt beef off every surface in that kitchen. Tidemother alone knows where the pot ended up.” Katherine sighs heavily. “I have to admit, Proudmoores blowing things up does seem to be a little bit of a trend.”

 

  “Not me, I’m better at sinking things,” Derek supplies, helpfully, from the kitchen.

 

  “We know, darling. Nobody has ever managed to facilitate a four-way collision in the Harbour before, much less with only two ships. On another day, I might have been impressed. Anything else I should know about, Sylvanas?”

 

  “Well, the merchants of Tradewinds Market are preparing for a storm, the bull is still missing, my mother has retired to our chambers with quite a lot of wine and I think Rommath has taken a fancy to Jaina’s scroll collection. So… not much.”

 

  Emerging from the kitchen to place a mug and a brimming saucer on the table, Derek tilts his head to one side. “Is now a bad time to mention Lord Norwington wants to see you, Mother?”

 

  Katherine’s only response is a low groan.

 

  “I think it might be,” Sylvanas ventures.

 

  “I will do the honourable thing and keep Lireesa company. Do let me know if Jaina has any success, Sylvanas, dear. Or if there’s a major fire. By which I mean, anything that threatens my wine cellar.” And before Sylvanas can open her mouth, Katherine has swallowed the last of her rum in one great gulp, grabbed two big bottles from the rack on the wall and marched past a cowering Sanders and out of the kitchen.

 

  Daelin sighs. “Sometimes a Lord Admiral must do what a Lord Admiral must do. Isn’t that right, Lord Admiral?”

 

  “Yes, Lord Admiral,” floats Katherine’s voice behind her.

 

  “Right. Storm coming in, you say, Sylvanas?” Daelin motions Sanders forwards and tugs Derek back up from his own chair. “You, inform the Guard to close the market and check the windows on the upper floor of the Keep, and you go and lower the sails on the _Lady Katherine_. I’m not having a ship in dock damaged.”

 

  “Oh, _now_ you’re worried about damaging a ship-”

 

  “Stow it before I damage you. Well, what are you waiting for? Stir your stumps!” He straightens his spine and watches Derek and Sanders scuttle off. “And what are these for- here you go, my good lady, and this one for His Majesty down here. I do hope you’ll find more common ground with Norwington than you did with the Waycrests, dear, he’s a little… ebullient, but he’s a friendly soul at heart. Drink up and we’ll get this over with.”

 

  “Lord Admiral,” Sylvanas says, surveying the saucer of meat chunks and gravy held gingerly in one hand, “I hope you won’t think me discourteous if I pass.”

 

  Daelin blinks at her, and down at the cat at his feet, lapping up the mug of gently steaming milk. “Oh, Tidemother’s tits,” he mutters. “I’m sorry, Sylvanas. It’s been such a long day I can’t even joke about your purr-fect supper there. Honestly, the only thing that would complete this wretched evening would be-”

 

  “HORSE-NAPPERS!”

 

  Sylvanas leaps up as though scalded as a portly top-hatted figure comes thundering through the doorway, flanked by two small boys in navy blue sailing suits. “Lord Admiral! There are horse-nappers afoot! And oh, it hurts me to say it- the beautiful, and very expensive, Lady Delilah was loosed from her pen in the Market with the other livestock, and whisked away through the chaos!” He pauses to press a podgy hand to his chest, eyes wide in dramatic misery. “And worse- that scoundrel Don Adams actually has an alibi! How can I continue without my prize mare? Now, last time, you warned me against using my nice traps, though I would like once again to point out that it was only a little drop and the scoundrels do bounce- well, I never!” He stops in the middle of the kitchen, eyes fixed on Sylvanas, and just as abruptly rushes forwards to grab her hand and pump it up and down in both of his. “Well, you must be one of the elves! Delighted, delighted! I glimpsed one of you running away from a bull earlier. You can’t half set a pace, can you? I don’t imagine the red cloak helped matters! Tell me, what do those ears _do?_ Samwell, come and have a look at these ears!”

 

  As one of the boys scrambles to peer at Sylvanas, Daelin steps forwards and clears his throat. “Ranger-General Windrunner, this is Lord Norwington. As you may have gathered, he breeds horses. And loses them, apparently.”

 

  “She was _pilfered!_ By some long-fingered scrote! And since I am no longer allowed to use my perfectly humane, perfectly safe traps to catch them-”

 

  “The only time you ever caught anything was when Derek dared Tandred to run over the blasted contraption. Get to the point, please, Aldrius.”

 

  “Well, I need your help, Daelin! These scoundrels must be caught before they can sneak themselves into Dampwick Ward and sell my beauties on! And thus I am here, when I should be home, relaxing with whisky and a nice hot steam bath!” But his beady eyes still haven’t left Sylvanas, who straightens her spine and glares up at him. “I thought you elves would be taller, I admit. And a bit more feral. You don’t seem very frightening! You must hear everything, young lady- tell me, can you hear my stomach gurgling? I am rather famished, you know.”

 

  “It is my prerogative as _Ranger-General of Quel’Thalas_ ,” Sylvanas snaps, eyes narrowing, “to hone my hearing to focus on that which may be important. As such, the complaints of an overly-large human stomach barely register.”

 

  Norwington blinks. And promptly bursts out laughing. “Oh, I like this one, Daelin! I do! Now, I’m afraid I don’t know what a Ranged General is, or whatever it was-”

 

  “Ranger-General, of the elven homeland Quel’Thalas,” Sylvanas manages to get out through gritted teeth.

 

  “Bless you. But you seem like you might be able to help me with my horse thieves- and in return, I dare say I can help you out! You may be a little short of supplies after today’s mishap with your vessel, is that right?”

 

  Daelin sighs, deeply. “You heard it?”

 

  “My estate is liberally decorated with bits of ship, Lord Admiral. As is every other estate nearby. I managed to catch some sail in my evening repast.” Daelin droops. “I’m guessing, my pointy-eared lady, that you have some troops at your disposal?”

 

  “That’s usually what the General bit of Ranger-General stands for.” Sylvanas’s jaw is so tightly clenched Daelin can see the veins stand out in her throat. “My Farstriders stand ready to aid Kul Tiras in matters of life and death. Protect its people to our own dying breath from any threat too severe to overcome alone.”

 

  “You’re a very serious lot, aren’t you?” Norwington peers at her. “Do you smile?”

 

  He squeaks and scuttles backwards at the flash of fang Sylvanas sends his way. “Erm, yes, lovely. Very sharp. Well, your Awayrunners or whatever- they will do as you tell them?”

 

  “Unless they wish to find themselves scrubbing the floors of Proudmoore Keep.”

 

  “Well then, I don’t see what you have to lose- we can sort this together! Bring them to my estate, and teach these whippersnappers, ruffians and scallywags a lesson!”

 

  There’s a moment of silence.

 

  “But I thought you wanted us to catch some horse thieves,” Sylvanas says.

 

  “What Lord Norwington means to say,” Daelin interjects quickly, slapping the little hands reaching for Sylvanas’s embossed leather bootstraps, “is that should you find who is responsible for stealing his horses, he will pay you for your services.”

 

  “Armour! Why, my estate does not only produce horses, but armour for the entirety of the Proudmoore Admiralty!” Norwington chuckles heartily, displaying a mouth full of gold teeth. “I will outfit every elf who so wishes for armour, should you recover my pride and joy from Dampwick and bring these bandits to justice. How does that sound?”

 

  “Your offer is gracious, Lord Norwington.” Sylvanas quickly steps back from the small fingers reaching for her leggings. “But my people need shelter more than we do armour.” Her ear flicks at the furious bleat from down the hallway. “Permanent shelter. Preferably waterproof.”

 

  “Then both! I shall do both! And a grand feast, where your praises may be sung before the House of Proudmoore! I hear you and young Lady Jaina are getting on rather well- how better to encourage relations between your weird-eared kind and ours, than to have you and the Lady Proudmoore at the head of the table for our great celebratory banquet? Surely it can do no harm for the Ranged Gander or whatever you are to show off a little?”

 

  Sylvanas’s ears rise, just a little, and her brow crinkles.

 

  For a moment, the only sound in the room is the muffled squeaking and thudding from the library.

 

  “I accept your offer of armour and shelter, Lord Norwington.” Drawing herself to her full height, Sylvanas tilts her chin up and extends a firm hand. “I will gather the most capable of my troops and we will converge tomorrow night at the Norwington Estate to catch your horse thieves.”

 

  “Excellent!” Norwington beams, grasping her hand in both of his and shaking it vigorously. “How truly splendiferous!”

 

  “Is that a plant?”

 

  “Eh? Never mind! Samwell, come hither, we’ll return home at once and start preparing for our funny-eared friends to come and catch those ragamuffins!” Norwington pats the boys’ backs, beaming from ear to ear. “And good day to you too, Lord Admiral.”

 

  “Good day, Lord Nor-”

 

  The small boys shriek and scuttle backwards as an elven-eared ram careens into Lord Norwington’s legs, gives a nervous burp of fire, and bolts towards the door.

 

  “Everything’s under control!” yells the bedraggled Jaina scrambling along behind as she flings a flurry of snow at Lord Norwington’s gently smoking pantaloons and thuds through the door behind the sheep. “More or less!”

 

  “Good,” Lord Norwington says faintly, brushing at his legs. “Good to know. Interesting pets you keep, Lord Admiral, I’m more of a dog person myself.”

 

  And he hobbles away towards the entryway, the boys following wide-eyed in his wake.

 

  For a moment, there’s silence, as Sylvanas closes her eyes and takes a long, deep breath. “Perhaps I should go and help Jaina?”

 

  “I’d really rather you stayed here. I don’t know much about high elves yet, but I don’t think they’re fireproof.” Daelin offers her a gentle smile. “Well… that’s Norwington.”

 

  Even Sylvanas’s ears are tight to her head, her hands clenched white-knuckled before her stomach. “Human nobles,” she says, voice strained as she glances to the window after Jaina, “are ever of two sorts: the kind whose ego is proportionate to their ability, and the kind whose ego is proportionate to their belly. And it doesn’t help when I can barely understand a word coming out of their overstuffed mouth.”

 

  “Somewhere along the line, he ate a thesaurus and the ink has done lasting damage.” Daelin steps closer, reaching out a cautious hand to touch Sylvanas’s arm. “Sylvanas, I appreciate that you want to do what is best by your people, and your dedication to the House of Proudmoore is very touching… especially considering the day’s events.” He pauses for a yelp and a loud bleat from the gardens. “But please do not feel you must take on extra responsibilities, on top of those you already owe to your people. Horse thieves can be nasty business, real thugs, and I really feel it would be best for you to leave this to the Proudmoore Admiralty to deal with-”

 

  “With all due respect, Lord Admiral, my title was earned through blood. I have tracked seasoned assassins from one side of Quel’Thalas to the other and slain them with their own blades. I have taken down war bands with two Farstriders and a box of chocolates. Subdued fully armoured troll veterans with a reel of twining, from within a locked cage and suspended upside down.” Sylvanas peers at him, face in sharp profile from the flickering candlelight. “Horse thieves would have been laughed out of Quel’Thalas.”

 

  “I’m sorry, Sylvanas, I didn’t intend to belittle you.” Daelin sighs. “I just forget how long you elves live.”

 

  “No offence taken. I don’t look a day over two hundred.”

 

  “Though I wouldn’t mind knowing what you did with that twining.”

 

  “You loop it around somewhere long and delicate and you tighten it until they squeal.”

 

  The bottom drops out of Daelin’s stomach. “By the Tidemother’s arse cheeks, you don’t mean-”

 

  “His nose.” Sylvanas squints at him. “What did you think I meant?”

 

  Daelin is saved from replying by Derek scuttling back in. “Sorry that took so long. I did think about asking Jaina to do me a portal,” he says, collapsing back into his chair, “but her pet flamethrower’s just toasted Mother’s begonias and taken off towards the Academy. They have a lot of textbooks. This could go very badly.” He peers at Sylvanas. “Your older sister told me she’s taking a breather. Odd word to use for wine, but she’s certainly taking it. Twining around the nose, eh?”

 

  “If the trolls didn’t want us to use them as grapples, they shouldn’t have let them grow so long. It is my prerogative as Ranger-General to ensure my Farstriders have a bit of fun.” Sylvanas shrugs with one shoulder, leaning against the wall. “And they did.”

 

  Derek grins. “And I’d love to know what you put in those chocolates.”

 

  Glancing back towards the window, Sylvanas wrinkles her nose. “What I put in the chocolates?”

 

  “The ones you took war bands down with! What was it? Poison? Powerful laxatives? Some paralytic agent?”

 

  “Oh, I just told my Farstriders they could have them when the trolls were dead. Elves will do anything for sugar.”

 

  Daelin rubs a hand over his face. “For my part, I’m going to bed before I manage to get any more mixed up. That sail should be safely stowed?”

 

  Derek frowns. “I’ve no idea, Father.”

 

  “Well then, who did I tell to go and lower the…”

 

  Daelin’s eyes go round, in the same second that Derek’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead. “SANDERS!” the Lord Admiral bellows, bolting for the back door. “HOLD ON, I’M COMING!”

 

-0-0-

 

  “The Proudmoores and their associate have entrusted me with a dangerous and delicate situation. The very life of a woman of some considerable nobility depends on our success, sister.” Sylvanas, huddled into herself in borrowed Ranger garb that is entirely unsuitable for the chill of the Kul Tiran air, doesn’t let her eyes leave Alleria’s as she paces from one end of their shared chambers to the other. “There is a lot… riding… on our shared brilliance for this.”

 

  “My, sister, you dazzle me with your humility. Well?” Alleria quirks her lip, rubbing her forehead in an attempt to dispel the remnants of her hangover. “Tell me more.”

 

  “It will require stealth.”

 

  “As long as it’s not a rooftop operation, we have that covered.” Alleria glances to the gloomy sky outside. “I just hope the Inn isn’t having any damp problems. I suppose Kul Tiras just has one general damp problem. The air.”

 

  “It will require strategy. We can’t go… hoofing our way into this one.”

 

  “Ah, that’s why you sought me out. The brains for your brawn. Aren’t you cold?”

 

  “And it might require carrots.”

 

  “It- what?”

 

  Sylvanas sniggers and darts forwards to flick her sister on the nose. “Horse thieves, Alleria. We are to track the Lady Delilah, a thoroughbred Highland mare stolen away in the market mishap yesterday, and return her to her rightful owner.”

 

  “That’s all? _Belore._ Jaina is easily pleased.”

 

  The giggling descends into indignant splutters. “Why would you assume- Jaina had nothing to do with- Lord Norwington approached entirely separate-”

 

  “And the feast with you and Jaina at the head of the table was merely a pleasurable bonus. Sylvanas, if you truly think me so gullible, your three hundred years have taught you precious little.” Alleria reaches out and flicks her sister’s nose straight back. “So that’s what you were entrusted with. The Kul Tirans might call such a task _small fry_ for us, sister.”

 

  “I know. That’s the best part of it.” Sylvanas shrugs, rubbing her arms above the mail gauntlets and sniffling softly. “But I want your discretion, sister. I don’t want any of the other Rangers hearing of this and wading in. And I want to keep the feast a secret from Jaina until we have caught the horse thieves-”

 

  “What’s that?” A stack of precariously-balanced texts wobbles through the doorway, closely followed by the rest of Jaina.

 

  “New greaves!” Sylvanas says quickly. “For, erm, for the Farstriders. Some of them got, erm, blown up. Not while they were wearing them. I hope.”

 

  “Oh. Yes, I’m afraid your supplies are looking a bit… fragmented.” She offers Sylvanas a smile, which is instantly returned. “Aren’t you cold?”

 

  “Do I look cold?”

 

  “Yes,” Jaina and Alleria answer in unison.

 

  “I am not cold. The Ranger-General of Quel’Thalas does not get cold. Our armour is optimised for rapid movement and quick, accurate archery and we must value manoeuvrability and stealth over simple physical comfort.” Sylvanas snaps into a salute, puffing her chest out with a shiver. “And I’m also not cold.”

 

  “Whatever you say, _Lai’lune_.” Alleria glances to Jaina for her own comeback-

 

  Only to find her staring straight at Sylvanas’s toned abs, mouth falling open as her throat works to swallow.

 

  Even as Alleria watches, a grin tugging at her mouth, those wide blue eyes drift up just a little, and a delicate flush rises in Jaina’s cheeks.

 

  “Jaina? Is something wrong?” Sylvanas, of course, is too busy being all concerned to realise the state she’s put the Lady Proudmoore in. “Azeroth to Jaina?” She reaches out a tentative hand, brushing it over Jaina’s arm; Jaina jumps as though struck. “Are you alright?”

 

  “I- y-yes! Yes! Totally fine!” Jaina’s voice is little more than a squeak. “N-no, come to think of it, you don’t look cold at all. Silly me! I’ll, um, I’ll go and read these chests- TEXTS! I said texts! Definitely texts. Might be something to help Rommath. Best of luck with your abs- PLANS! With your plans! I’llseeyouatdinnerhavealovelydaybye!” And she bolts out of the room.

 

  Sylvanas glances to Alleria, eyes wide. “Was it something I said?”

 

  Alleria slumps back down again, rolling her eyes so hard they hurt. “Come then, my dear oblivious Ranger-General. Regale me with your brilliance. How are we to catch these dastardly horse thieves, so that you may feast with your beautiful rescuer?”

 

  Though her eyes don’t leave the doorway, Sylvanas smirks through her shivering. “Is it not obvious, my sister? We become the customers.”

 

-0-0-

 

  “You seem distracted, Jaina,” Katherine says, cradling her third cup of tea. “I’m concerned you’re turning into your father.”

 

  “What? Me? No. I’m not distracted!” Jaina’s head jerks up from the scroll she’s been trying to read for the past twenty minutes. “I’m merely formulating a plan to reverse a self-Polymorph, which I’ve never had to attempt before, because I’m not an idiot.” The indignant bleat her comment earns her gets a frank look in response. “And including some… slight elven complications.”

 

  Derek, busily munching on toast, exchanges a smirk with Tandred. “Do those complications answer to the name Sylvanas?”

 

  “Grow up, Derek. This is a very convoluted spell and the weave Rommath has used is quite an… outdated one. And if everyone would let me, I would be able to look through the general framework of the incantation.”

 

  Katherine tilts her head to one side. “You’re sure that’s all it is?”

 

  “Yes, Mother. I am.”

 

  “And your rather absent and slightly dreamy expression is due in total to the unfamiliar spellwork you’re studying?”

 

  “Yes!”

 

  The Lord Admiral reaches forwards and, without a word, turns the scroll the right way up.

 

  “Oh,” Jaina mumbles.

 

  “Come on, Jaina.” Tandred leans forwards, a lopsided grin on his face. “She’s a handsome woman. If you don’t, I’ll give it a try.”

 

  “I’ll paint the Keep walls with your innards.”

 

  “That didn’t sound jealous at all,” her brother returns, with an ever-widening smirk.

 

  Jaina sighs. “She’s… she’s not in the right place for it. We still don’t know what happened to her in Quel’Thalas- for all I know, she might not even _like_ women that way.”

 

  “She seems to have settled rather well,” says Katherine.

 

  “The only way she’ll feel more secure is by moving on,” says Derek.

 

  “Her sisters seemed quite sure of her tastes,” says Tandred.

 

  “Baa,” says Rommath.

 

  Jaina flops down beside her pile of books and sighs, staring at the ground. “Fine. You all win. Notify the Proudmoore Guard, ensure all your loins are thoroughly girded, and brace yourselves to witness the disaster that is Jaina Proudmoore trying to date.”

 

-0-0-

 

  “Really, Sylvanas? A _mask?_ ”

 

  “It was the best I could do with limited resources.”

 

  “But I can’t _see!_ ”

 

  “Neither can I, but you don’t hear me whining like Lirath at Winter’s Veil. Use your ears. Listen to the crowd’s footsteps.”

 

  Scowling behind her mask, Alleria grabs her sister’s arm and hauls her closer. “And speaking of ears- who, on this good green planet of Azeroth, sewed these hoods? It _hurts!_ ”

 

  “I don’t know, ma’am,” a human man’s voice squeaks. “I just wanted to go to the baker’s!”

 

  “My sincerest apologies.” Alleria drops the poor man and lunges for Sylvanas again. “Well?”

 

  “Yes, thank you,” says a human woman’s voice.

 

  “I’m so glad to hear it. Have a lovely day. _Sylvanas!_ ” She drags the mask up her face for just long enough to grab her sister and tug her, squawking, into a vice grip. “Well? Who is the demented milliner responsible for the abomination atop my head?”

 

  “Lor’themar has been oddly eager for a way to get back into Minn’da’s good books.”

 

  “And you _let_ him? You’re getting soft in your old age, Sylvanas.”

 

  “And who would you have asked? Vereesa of the three-armed jumper fame?”

 

  “An extra limb would be preferable to losing the blood flow in my ears.”

 

  “Oh, stop complaining and just use your-” Alleria reels back at the metallic _clang_ before her. “ _Ow!_ Who put a lamp post there?”

 

  “Oh, did you not hear it?”

 

  At the low growl from her side, Alleria judges it safest to move on, so she takes her sister’s arm once again and all but drags her down the road and into what Sanders informed them was Dampwick Ward.

 

  “Sanders said a lot of unsavoury characters like to fence stolen goods here,” Alleria murmurs as they trudge towards the smoke-darkened entryway of the Dampwick Tavern and she wraps her arm around the small of Sylvanas’s back. “And spent the next ten minutes assuring me he absolutely never comes here, under any circumstances, to buy anything, and definitely not the pocket watch he most certainly bought legitimately. Anyway- just act casual. Follow my lead. Right?”

 

  “Is it too late to regret bringing you along?”

 

  Rolling her eyes behind the flimsy mask, Alleria tugs her over the threshold. “Just act confident,” she says, and promptly shoulder-barges her way through the crowd and blindly up to the bar to slam a hand down on its smooth surface.

 

  “Ahoy, barkeep!” she announces, in the vague direction of the beer pumps.

 

  “Get your ‘and off my head,” growls a man’s voice.

 

  “My sincerest- I mean, um. Scupper me, ya bilge rat.”

 

  By her side, Alleria can just make out the _thwap_ of Sylvanas facepalming through her mask.

 

  “Arr.” Alleria quickly fumbles for the bar and leans over it, waving furiously. “Barkeep! A word in yer shell-like, if you don’t mind!”

 

  “If you don’t shut up _right now_ I am going to kick you so hard you’ll end up in Stormwind,” Sylvanas hisses.

 

  “Barkeep!” Alleria calls, ignoring her sister’s increasingly desperate attempts to wrangle her to the ground. “Aye! A moment o’ yer time, you bilge-scrubbing scallywag!”

 

  “Pardon?”

 

  “Aye! You! I be wonderin’ if you would know anything about a right beautiful horse pilfered from Lord Norwington in the chaos yesterday! It be stolen from Tradewinds, right under his there nose, aye!” Alleria leans closer, squinting through the eye-holes. “And we be ready to pay handsomely for it, with the shiniest gold ye’ve ever seen!”

 

  The only sound left in the bar is the scratch of the jukebox, as every head turns to stare at her. “What’re ye all lookin’ at? Erm. Arr,” she adds, for good measure. “Me hearties?”

 

  The bartender leans backwards, rubbing idly at a glass with his grimy rag. “Don,” he calls, “there are two elves trying really hard to be pirates wantin’ to know who nicked Norwington’s horse?”

 

  “I wish I could disown you,” Sylvanas mumbles miserably.

 

  “Well, it wasn’t me for once,” chuckles a low, throaty voice from the passageway behind the bar, and boots come clunking up the steps. “But that ain’t honourable, to steal from someone who gives so much to the people of Boralus. Why don’t you ladies come on down here? I daresay I can help you… and I can even score you some better costumes.”

 

-0-0-

 

  “Jaina? How long are you planning on staying out in the gardens? I thought you’d like to know, Halduron Brightwing’s in your study recovering from his spontaneous cross-country run. Daelin’s cooking him a beef stew. Halduron seems to be taking a certain vindictive pleasure from it. Oh, and Brother Therold brought some manuscripts from the Academy that he thinks might be able to help you with- Jaina?”

 

  “Mother,” the bush to her right hisses. “Is this romantic?”

 

  Katherine blinks. “Romance usually takes place in a different sort of bed, sweetheart.”

 

  “No!” The shrub gestures frantically to the pathway beside it, and Katherine squints down it. “See? I left magelights so she’ll be led towards it. Go see, I’ll catch you up when I’ve removed the briarthorn stuck in my arse.”

 

  Leaving Jaina wriggling and cursing in the undergrowth, Katherine tucks the books back into her bag and swings it over her shoulder as she wanders down the gently-lit path. “I see you’ve trimmed back some of the trees,” she calls. “That’s nice, darling.”

 

  “Keep going- _Tides that bit stings-_ her surprise is at the end!”

 

  “Well, at least it isn’t a midnight balcony visit this time. Though in fairness to them, the Proudmoore Guard responded very quickly. I was rather impressed.”

 

  “And the one who caught me got a pay rise.”

 

  “He also got a bad back, darling- oh, sweetheart!”

 

  For a moment, Katherine is silent, as her eyes rove across the scene in front of her. “Oh, Jaina. You have been busy! She’s going to love this.”

 

  “You think?” Jaina’s voice is giddy with excitement.

 

  “I do.” Katherine turns, a soft smile on her face. “I really think so.”

 

  Jaina’s muddy, scratched face splits into a beam from ear to ear. “Wonderful. Now all I have to do is turn her friend back into an elf and it’ll be a day’s work. I hope she’s enjoying whatever it is she and her sister have rushed off to do.”

 

-0-0-

 

  “But why do I get to be the horse’s ass?”

 

  “You’re better suited to the challenge, Alleria. In every possible way.”

 

  “Imagine your gravestone. _Here lies Sylvanas of the Windrunner family, Ranger-General of Silvermoon, Third in Line to Thas’dorah, strangled by the ass end of a horse costume._ How poetic.”

 

  “You’re only proving my point.”

 

  Alleria jabs at where she imagines her sister’s ribs to be. “Come on then. Give me your best neigh.”

 

  “I’ll let you be the one to make a fool of yourself, sister.”

 

  “You want this horse to, quite literally, talk out of its ass?”

 

  “Why not? You do it so well.”

 

  There’s a pause, as Alleria closes her eyes and takes deep breaths until the urge to trample her sister with her new rubber hooves has passed.

 

  Sylvanas sniffles, the mail undershirt clinking in the silence of Tradewinds. “As soon as the thieves are in chains,” she says, shivering, “we burn this costume and never speak of this again. Ever. Under any circumstances. To anyone.”

 

  “Agreed.”

 

  They lapse into silence again.

 

  “She likes you,” Alleria says eventually. Her back is starting to ache. “Jaina. She really likes you.”

 

  “The feeling is mutual. She is delightful company and a true credit to her house and family. Not to mention an incredibly talented mage. It is my duty to give her the admiration she is due.”

 

  Alleria sighs. “ _Anar’alah_ , Sylvanas. I mean she _likes_ you.”

 

  “It is an honour to serve under-”

 

  “ _Belore give me strength_ , have you always been this dense? It’s like talking to Rommath. Pre- or post-Polymorph.”

 

  The horse’s head wobbles precariously as Sylvanas turns her own and fixes Alleria with a glare.

 

  Alleria scowls straight back. “Alright, let me put it another way. For some reason that I, having lived with you for far too many years, cannot comprehend- it would seem the Lady Jaina Proudmoore sees something in you. Something she actually finds attractive. Something that makes her want to jump atop you, grab your mane and _ride_ you like there’s no tomorrow-”

 

  “ _Shh!_ ”

 

  “What? This is serious, Sylvanas!”

 

  “Alleria, shut up, I hear voices!”

 

  “It’s alright, they won’t speak Thalassian.”

 

  “ _That’s not the point-_ ”

 

  The door creaks open and Alleria jerks back into her crouch, her hands on Sylvanas’s hips, who plants her legs apart and grapples valiantly in an attempt to stop the rubber horse head from shaking.

 

  Two sets of feet pad closer.

 

  “Ready?” Sylvanas whispers.

 

  “To collapse in a pile and never move again, absolutely,” Alleria mumbles.

 

  “FOR THE PROUDMOORE ADMIRALTY!” Sylvanas shrieks, and the two hooded figures screech and scramble for the doorway as the horse splits in two and comes charging towards them, yelling in Thalassian-

 

  Sylvanas grabs the closest and tugs furiously at her sword, tangled tightly in the legs of the costume just as Alleria brings the second down with a thud and wrangles him into the straw-strewn ground.

 

  Giving her sword one final tug and finding it hopelessly entangled, Sylvanas sighs and grabs the rubber horse head to whack the struggling thief in the face. “Tell me where the Lady Delilah is!” she yells, arm drawn back, rubber muzzle wobbling ominously. “Tell me-”

 

  “SYLVANAS, STOP!” She jerks backwards as Vereesa sprints in, furiously waving a handful of leather straps. “ _Lai’lune_ , don’t- are you really beating Lor’themar with a rubber horse head?”

 

  “No, Vereesa, I’m beating a horse thief with a rubber horse head- what?”

 

  “ _Bal’a dash_ , Ranger-General,” comes mumbled from Sylvanas’s feet, as the figure tugs its hood off to reveal a very dazed Ranger-Captain. “Both of you.” He lifts a hand and waves feebly at the space beside Sylvanas. “Another sister, by _Belore_ , it’s just getting ridiculous now.”

 

  “Oh, don’t tell me I forgot one again,” comes Lirath’s voice from beneath the other hood. “It’s bad enough when you want one and you can’t remember the name of the one you want. And somehow, calling for _the pretty one_ made it even worse.”

 

  Sylvanas leans over to tug the hood off her brother, who offers a sheepish smile in response. “What,” she repeats, as she backs up and points at Vereesa, “in the name of the Sunwell, are you doing here? One at a time.”

 

  “I’m undercover,” says Vereesa.

 

  “Me too, but as a horse thief,” says Lor’themar.

 

  “Lor’themar said there would be snacks,” says Lirath.

 

  Taking a long, deep breath, Sylvanas pinches the bridge of her nose. “And what, Lor’themar, would possess you to steal a horse? What are you going to do, fall off it?”

 

  “It was an accident,” Lor’themar mumbles, rubbing miserably at his nose. “I woke up yesterday and everyone was running around and screaming, so I thought I should probably join in, and there was so much chaos, and then there were animals, and I didn’t really know what to do so I just did what everyone else was doing and opened the nearest pen, and then I couldn’t think what else to do so I just sort of… led it out and…”

 

  He sighs, deeply. “Long term thinking isn’t really my strong point.”

 

  “I would never have guessed,” Sylvanas mutters.

 

  “Long term drinking, on the other hand-”

 

  “So Minn’da told him to bring it back,” Vereesa interrupts. “And I’ve been keeping her safe and sound.” A triumphant grin on her face, she holds up the empty bridle in her hand. “Why are you all looking at me like that?”

 

  From the other side of the marketplace comes a furious neigh and a high-pitched scream. “Not again!” shrieks Halduron Brightwing’s voice, a second before an elven figure goes flying past, a bright white horse hot on his heels.

 

  “Oh yeah, and we brought Halduron,” Vereesa mumbles, staring down at the bridle.

 

  Silently, Sylvanas tugs her horse costume off and throws it to the ground. “Fortunately for all of you, I have a way with animals,” she mutters, and bolts out after them. “Here, horsey horsey horsey! Nice horsey, come over here, that’s a _nice_ horsey, come to Sylvanas- _ow!_ I take it back, you walking pelt!”

 

-0-0-

 

  “And though the horse thieves bestowed a grievous and terrible wound upon our Ranger-General,” Alleria cries, throwing an arm towards her sister with a dramatic flourish, “she was able to wrangle them to their knees and subdue them with no more than a single arrow and a broken blade to her person!” The crowd clustered at their tables before them, stretching from one side of Norwington’s estate to the other, breaks out into cheering. “The Lady Delilah has been returned to her rightful owner and we, the high elves of Silvermoon, invite you all to feast and pay your every tribute to our generous benefactor, Lord Aldrius Norwington! Now, I pray you, good people of Kul Tiras: enjoy the party!”

 

  Stood to one side of the podium beside a cake taller than herself, Sylvanas taps her hand against her thigh to join the raucous applause as Alleria descends, wiping her forehead. “I bribed Don Adams to stay quiet,” she murmurs, quietly enough that Sylvanas’s ear cants to hear her. “If Minn’da asks where her Silvermoon Blanc went, tell her it was the cat.”

 

  “I salute your bravery, sister. Perhaps your foolishness. Either way, I salute it.”

 

  “Or you would do, were you not _heinously_ wounded.” Alleria jabs the bicep strapped up tightly in a sling. “Such a good thing Jaina is right here to look after you.”

 

  Sylvanas opens her mouth only to sniffle and duck away from her sister, sneezing into her elbow.

 

  “ _Belore_ bless you,” Alleria says. “That’s the third time you’ve- quick, tidy yourself up, I see her!”

 

  Hurriedly wiping her nose with her handkerchief, Sylvanas bends into a deep bow with her sister as Jaina elbows her way through the crowd and drops into a curtsey before them. “Ahoy, Alleria, Sylvanas,” she says with a smile, though her eyes never leave the Ranger-General as she too bends and inclines her head to Jaina. “I’m so glad to see you are recovering well, Sylvanas. Those horse thieves can be really ruthless.”

 

  “Yes,” Sylvanas says, glancing gimlet-eyed to Lor’themar, who is suddenly extremely interested in the embroidery on his tunic. “If they had half a brain, they’d be dangerous.”

 

  Jaina steps closer, reaching out towards her with a soft grin. “Allow me to show you to your seats,” she says gently, and wraps her arm around Sylvanas’s good one. “We appear to be at the very head of the table. Closest to the cake.”

 

  “How lovely,” Sylvanas says, and- taking a breath to steady herself against the sudden tightness in her belly- slides her hand down Jaina’s arm until their fingers entangle. “Lord Norwington is generous indeed.”

 

  “Yes,” Jaina returns, her voice a little breathless. “Generous indeed.”

 

  She only lets go of Jaina to ease herself into the plush chair designated for her with a wince. “Your mother has allocated my people a generous space to build within the city,” she says, reaching for a plate of pastries. “A nice distance from Tradewinds- _achoo!_ ”

 

  “Tides bless you.” Jaina reaches for a napkin to press into her hand. “There may have been some gentle lobbying from the tradesfolk. I’m definitely not supposed to mention the pork chops Father received as a bribe.”

 

  “I don’t blame them. The fewer impromptu dawn escapades with livestock and elf-shaped holes in rooves, the better.” Sylvanas lowers her eyes in false bashfulness, glancing sideways at Jaina. “No doubt there will be space allocated for my family to re-join our people, and I will have to think of a proper way to thank you for your hospitality.”

 

  “Or an improper way,” Jaina mumbles.

 

  “Sorry?”

 

  “Nothing! But you must know you are welcome to remain within Proudmoore Keep. It’s been no hardship at all.” Those soft fingers, hidden from view beneath the table, gently wrap back around Sylvanas’s; Alleria surreptitiously ducks down and Sylvanas kicks her on the shin. “In fact, we’d be very sorry to see you go. I haven’t even had chance to reveal your surprise yet.”

 

  Sylvanas’s ears twitch upwards. “Surprise?”

 

  Jaina’s eyes are sparkling. “Indeed-”

 

  “FRIENDS FROM KUL TIRAS AND SILVER FUEL!”

 

  “Silvermoon,” Katherine Proudmoore’s voice quickly corrects, but Lord Norwington, clutching his megaphone tight, merely waves a meaty paw at her.

 

  “My friends, look at us all, assembled here today to rejoice at the return of my beautiful Lady! It is my honour and my pleasure to unveil, here and now, a most secret and most ambitious project, hosted here within the Norwington Estate- for, as loudly as we can now, what is our speciality here?”

 

  Silence.

 

  “Well, don’t all shout at once,” Norwington sighs.

 

  “You did cloaks at one point,” calls a woman from the back.

 

  “No, it was cupcakes,” another shouts.

 

  “I thought it was shoe racks?”

 

  “ARMOUR!” Norwington glares. “We design the finest plate armour Kul Tiras, and indeed the whole of Azeroth, has ever seen! Optimised to a point of perfection for your fighting, defending, dancing, oil-painting and flower-arranging needs!” He breaks out in a beam, flourishing his hand towards the curtain haphazardly hung to one side of the stage. “And as extra thanks to our wonderful friends from Solid Boom, for reuniting me with my dearest love- may I present… the Farstriders, in their incredible new armour!”

 

  “Oh, _Belore_ ,” Alleria mutters.

 

  From behind the curtain comes an ominous clanking as slowly, jerkily, an elf covered head to ear tip in plate comes clattering up the steps, a bow held stiffly in one shiny-gloved hand. Even from their table, Sylvanas winces at the muffled Thalassian cursing coming from beneath the helmet as a second elf emerges, straining to reach for the quiver strapped to her back past the unbending plate arm.

 

  “I’m so sorry, Lireesa,” Katherine Proudmoore murmurs.

 

  “If nothing else,” Lireesa says, voice faint, “I can keep them all in line by threatening to make them wear them.”

 

  Clanking into one another and hissing apologies through the ridiculous visors, the Farstriders rattle into a somewhat wobbly line behind Lord Norwington, stood beaming at them. “Look at their elven grace! Why, you would think they wore no armour at all- they move seamlessly!” He winces as a shining arm screeches against a stumbling leg. “Simply glorious! You all look positively-”

 

  The Ranger bringing up the rear trips over her own thickly-plated feet and crashes straight into the elf in front of her, bringing them toppling down into the next with a screech and Sylvanas can only watch, resigned, as elf after shiny elf is sent clattering to the ground in a brightly polished heap.

 

  “Oops,” is all Lord Norwington can say, staring down at the wriggling, groaning pile of metal.

 

  “Well done, Anya,” one of the suits of armour growls.

 

  “Sorry,” the right-most visor mumbles.

 

  In the stunned silence, Alleria lowers her head and starts banging it softly against the table.

 

  Lord Norwington turns back to the crowd, face red. “We’re building them houses as well,” he says quickly. “It wasn’t just the armour. I’m doing other things for them too.”

 

  Sylvanas slides out from her seat, mouth set in a hard line. “Please excuse me for a moment,” she says, offering Jaina a chivalrous nod, and tugs her bow from her back. “Farstriders! You all have ten seconds before I start finding out how well that armour protects you from arrows. Do not presume I cannot shoot one-handed.”

 

  The pile abruptly finds new encouragement to get to its feet. Sylvanas lets a grin tug at the very edge of her mouth as she watches the elves scrambling upright, idly nocking her first arrow and aiming it at the back of Anya’s head-

 

  “ _ACHOO!_ ”

 

  The arrow whizzes off course and the grand cake explodes, showering the closest table with shards of icing and sponge.

 

  Wiping a gooey lump of jam from her forehead, Jaina silently reaches up and removes the bow from Sylvanas’s hand to replace it with a napkin.

 

  “Bless you,” Katherine says, licking some cream from her arm.

 

  “Dessert is served,” Derek chirps, and ducks the backhand Jaina aims at his ear.

 

  “So.” Jaina tugs gently until Sylvanas slumps down into her chair, cheeks burning beneath the splattering of sponge. “Tell me. Do elves get colds?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i mean i have no excuse at all for why this has taken so long.
> 
> but in the time between the last chapter and this one, i have:  
> -graduated from university  
> -written degree off as useless  
> -started a cosplay for blizzcon  
> -trained my dog with THREE new commands  
> -had many, many feels for sylvanas.
> 
> so apologies for the delay and i promise i will give myself a good kick up the arse to get this one finished much, MUCH quicker. and i really hope this chapter is funny enough to pass muster.
> 
> any and all feedback is greatly appreciated :D


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this took so long!
> 
> Quick warning for the theme of past bereavement in this chapter. I'm not in this game to upset anyone! But there's a lot more comedy than sad, because I'm a sap.

  _25 years prior_

 

  “Minn’da! You summoned me home with all haste? I ran from Goldenbough Pass! I’m even a little out of breath!”

 

  The stone floor of Windrunner Spire’s foyer is speckled with mud. No staff bustle from room to room with arms full of vegetables or clean washing, and Ranger-Captain Sylvanas Windrunner takes a tentative step forwards, her grip tightening on her bow. “Minn’da? I assume it must be serious. You threatened to make me dance with Lor’themar at the Winter’s Veil party if I didn’t arrive within the day.”

 

  Only the echo of her own voice answers her.

 

  _Think, Sylvanas._ Her mother would be in her- not in her study, apparently. The dining area? No, their cosy little sanctum sits empty, the table set with dusty plates. She takes a long, deep breath to force herself to calm. Minn’da’s workshop. She’ll be in her workshop.

 

  She steps back out of the dining room-

 

  “HELP! PLEASE SOMEONE HELP ME!”

 

  Sylvanas is bolting up the stairs before the scream has even died away, leaping three steps at a time with arrow nocked and ready and she flies down the hallway and smashes Alleria’s door off the hinges to-

 

  “I need a cold dewberry juice. Please. With ice and a lemon slice. My throat is _so_ dry,” mumbles a blotchy-cheeked Alleria from beneath a mound of tissues, a suspiciously stained bowl clasped in one hand. She flops a hand out towards the table just out of her reach. “Welcome home, by the way.”

 

  For a long moment, the only sound in the room is Sylvanas panting, in an effort to keep from strangling her sister where she lies.

 

  Alleria cranes round, eyebrows pursed above red-rimmed, watery eyes. “I did say welcome home,” she mutters, and sniffs, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. “I see you decided I needed a new door.”

 

  “ _Belore_ , Alleria. Is that why you were lying there shouting and screaming? You wanted _dewberry juice?_ ” She throws her bow down; Alleria jerks her head back at the clatter, groaning in the back of her throat. “I thought you were in distress!”

 

  “I am! Can you not _see_ how parched I am?” Alleria flops back against the mound of pillows with a pitiful whine. “Look at the bags under my eyes, sister! They reach almost as far as yours do!”

 

  Sylvanas turns on her heel and storms out.

 

  “LADY MOON! Come back!” A pair of rolled up socks bounce off the back of Sylvanas’s head. “I’ll lend you some concealer! Besides, in that armour, everyone’s looking a little further south- _owmynose!_ I meant that as a compliment but thank you for returning the socks.”

 

  “MINN’DA! ANN’DA!” Sylvanas storms down the staircase, fists clenched white-knuckled at her sides. “This isn’t funny any more! My duties directly concern the wellbeing of Silvermoon and its people and I will not be summoned like an errant hound because Alleria thought she could cook clams again-”

 

  A Lireesa-shaped blur flies past her faster than she can grab it. “ _Bal’a dash_ my lovely daughter wonderful to see you keep an eye on them for me just off to the market for more fruit juice _shorel’aran_ ,” echoes behind it in the same moment the front door slams shut and Minn’da’s hawkstrider yelps as it is propelled forwards and down the hill.

 

  Sylvanas sighs. Deeply. “Try mounting the hawkstrider, Minn’da,” she calls. “It seems to make you go faster.”

 

  “An excellent observation, darling,” her mother yells over her shoulder.

 

  The silence is broken by the sound of Alleria gagging.

 

  “ _Anar’alah-!_ Alright. I’m coming.” Sylvanas turns on her heel, running a hand over her forehead, and walks back into the hallway. “I’m definitely coming. I just need to wash my face- well, not any more, I guess, hello Vereesa.”

 

  “I’m dying, Sylvanas,” comes the miserable reply from the elf clinging to the sink. “I’m dying slowly, and horribly.”

 

  “Please tell me Lirath didn’t eat them too.”

 

  Vereesa’s only answer is to point to the crumpled figure on the other side of the room.

 

  Pinching the bridge of her nose, Sylvanas sighs. “Hello, Lirath. Why, Lirath.”

 

  “I had to, I made them,” groans her brother’s voice from the pitiful heap of blankets.

 

  “SYLVANAS!” A second pair of socks bounces off the banister. “You said you were coming! I’m going to expire!”

 

  Vereesa’s hand shoots out and grabs her leggings in a vice grip. “Please help me to the chaise,” she croaks. “Minn’da won’t come near me anymore. I swear I was aiming for the bowl.”

 

  Lirath burps miserably. “I said you should tell her that _after_ she helped you to the chaise.”

 

  The back door clatters and Sylvanas jerks her leg from Vereesa’s hold before she can protest, darting into the kitchen. “Ann’da! Thank _Belore_ , Minn’da’s abandoned me with these three fools and nowhere near enough sick bowls to last me the Hallow’s Eve weekend- Ann’da?”

 

  Her father turns slowly. Though he’s smiling as he walks over to wrap his arms around her, her gut clenches at the single tear hovering on his cheek. “Hello, _Lai’lune,_ ” he murmurs, squeezing her about the waist. Something settles behind her ear; she reaches up to the petals of a rose as he slides it into place. “I’m afraid I don’t have much time before we leave. I will have to make it up to you at Winter’s Veil. I’m not sure how one Ann’da can spoil you more than you already are, but I’ll have time on the journey to think of something.”

 

  “But- where are you going? Why such a long time?” In spite of herself, she starts to shake. “Is another of our allies to secede like Kul Tiras?”

 

  “I should hope not.” Where once he had to crouch to press a kiss to her brow, now he merely tilts his head up. “Anasterian wishes a delegation to visit Lordaeron ahead of their Hallow’s Eve festivities. I’m sure you’ve heard the reports from the borders. They are… confusing.” His hand reaches for hers. “Disturbing. They threaten our security as well as that of our allies, and with Prince Arthas’s disappearance on top of that, it is no wonder the human kingdoms are summoning their armies. So I must leave my newly-planted peacebloom and my roses to your minn’da’s tender mercies. No doubt my entire garden will be in ruins by the time I return.”

 

  “But why you? You’re not a warrior, nor a ranger.” She glances uneasily to the staff he holds awkwardly by his side. It is strange to see him wield anything bigger than a trowel. “Let me go in your stead-”

 

  “No.” The finality of the word cuts Sylvanas off short. She blinks. “I won’t let you- I won’t call you back from four months of patrolling to send you gallivanting off across the border. You haven’t even cleaned your boots yet.”

 

  “They only get muddy again,” she mumbles.

 

  “And track yet more dirt up the staircase?”

 

  She sends a guilty glance towards the steps, shuffling. “In my defence,” she says loudly, not quite keeping the petulance out of her voice, “Alleria had me believing the entirety of Zul’Aman was bearing down on her bedroom window with how loudly she was screaming.”

 

  “If I wither away, Sylvanas Windrunner, it’ll be your fault for not taking me seriously,” Alleria yells down the stairs. “And I need those socks too!”

 

  “Then why did you throw them at me?”

 

  “It was that or a pot plant.”

 

  Vogel chuckles. Draws back, but keeps her hand held tightly in his. “You’ll see me again soon enough,” he says. The smile on his face is too wide. Too symmetrical. “My role in this little escapade is entirely diplomatic. I trust you to use your own mediation skills to keep your siblings in line until I return.”

 

  “I wouldn’t. They’re all going in the Elrendar at this rate.” Her traitorous lower lip is trying to wobble. If she doesn’t make a joke, she’ll make a fool of herself by crying in front of her Ann’da. “I’ll give _Kim’lune_ her armbands. Maybe.”

 

  He tilts his head to one side. “You wouldn’t settle for just Alleria going for an impromptu swim?”

 

  “You always spoil my fun.”

 

  Her Ann’da’s face softens. “Pass my love on to them for me. I can’t- won’t ask them to come wave me farewell. Not when they feel so sickly.” Her protest dies on her lips as his eyes fill with a sheen that he quickly blinks away. “I am told your next meeting at the Farstriders’ Enclave will involve Magister Drathir. Did you know he’s deathly scared of fish? That should bring you fun enough to tide you through.” And his hand comes up to stroke away the tears she didn’t feel falling. “Enough weeping. You’ll spoil your kohl. Lor’themar paid dearly for the same offence.”

 

  “He _smudged_ my whole eye. So I smudged his. With my fist.”

 

  Vogel shakes his head. “Look after your Minn’da for me,” he says, his voice tinged with something raw. “Please, no more disturbances at the King’s court. Even the hilarious ones involving my vegetables and Lor’themar’s pyromaniac friend. And keep this safe, won’t you?” Without so much as glancing away from her gaze, he tugs a worn silver ring from his hand and slides it onto her middle finger. “And I will bring back that hard candy you loved so much, even when it turned your lips blue. Deal?”

 

  Throat swollen with tears, Sylvanas nods.

 

  “Thank you.” And the hug he wraps her in is only just shy of painfully tight. She feels him bury his nose in her hair and inhale, just once, before pulling himself away and hefting his knapsack over one shoulder. “ _Belono sil’aru,_ Lady Moon _._ ”

 

  “ _Al diel shala,_ Ann’da.”

 

  The back door clatters shut behind him.

 

  The silence that falls is only broken by the jangling of bottles, as Lireesa shoulder-barges her way in through the front door. “Sylvanas! That’s a pretty rose you have there. _Anar’alah,_ where has that ann’da of yours gone? Quickly, the vintner didn’t give me anywhere near enough sacks to put all these in- _belore_ , never mind a glass, just hand me a straw. You weren’t here for when Alleria tipped her sick bowl out of her window. We’re paying the hedge trimmer double this week. Please put your hand on your heart and promise me, on my last blonde hairs, you will never fall ill? Please?”

 

-0-0-

 

  _25 years later, in Kul Tiras_

“ACHOO!”

 

  “ _Belore_ , daughter. Any moment now, the dwarves in Dun Morogh will be registering an earthquake.” With catlike grace, Lireesa ascends from her chair and strides over to retrieve the thermometer from the opposite corner of the chamber. “I can only apologise for the sorry state of my daughter. To you and to whomever it is the Lords Admiral are hosting later today. And also for the fate of yesterday’s dessert. At least we all got a taste, even if it was served directly to the face.”

 

  Jaina, stood awkwardly in the doorway with the pouch of herbs Brother Pike gave her, opens her mouth only for Alleria to barge past wielding a steaming tray of soup. “I heard someone re-enacting the Sundering in here. You’re putting Rommath right off his grass shavings. Here, some nice hot soup made specially for you, and I couldn’t find Vereesa anywhere so you have the honour of receiving it couriered straight to your bedside by your prettiest sister-”

 

  In a flash Lireesa is back across the room, flinging her arms out before the lump of blankets huddled on the bed. “Did you or your brother so much as _breathe_ on any of the ingredients for that soup, Alleria Windrunner?”

 

  “No, Minn’da, I promise!”

 

  “You swear on your bow?”

 

  “Come now, Minn’da, there are easier ways of getting rid of her than that-” The glare Lireesa levels at her has even Jaina shrinking back against the wall. “I mean I love my sister very much and I would never do anything to harm her as long as I draw breath,” she mumbles. “Obviously.”

 

  Straightening her spine, Lireesa reaches out and snatches the bowl from Alleria’s hands. “Very well,” she says, lips thin, and prods the pile of blankets on the four-poster bed. “Dinner time, Sylvanas.”

 

  “Can’t,” the pile mumbles. Even the tips of two reddened ears poking out from it are drooping. “Dying.”

 

  “My darling, that is a touch melodramatic.”

 

  “Will you be nice about me in my eulogy?”

 

  “I’d be truthful.”

 

  “That means no,” Alleria supplies, helpfully.

 

  A pitiful sniffle from beneath the blankets. “I’m not coming out unless you promise to tell everyone at my funeral how wonderful I was. How clever and cunning and selfless. And pretty. Make sure you emphasise how pretty I was.” A wheezing, rattling cough. Jaina winces. “And that I had a really lovely butt- _anar’alah COLD Minn’da give that back!_ ”

 

  With a flick of her arm, Lireesa rips the blanket from the curled form on the mattress and throws it over Alleria’s head before her arms are even halfway up. “Lesson number one of being a ranger, daughters! Always be alert _._ And there she is, the brave Ranger-General of Quel’Thalas.”

 

  “Where,” Sylvanas mumbles.

 

  “I’ll go and find more soup for the valiant Ranger-General!” Alleria announces from beneath the blanket. “Lesson number two of being a ranger, always offer what aid you can.” And she turns to walk face first into the wall. “As soon as you find the doorway.”

 

  Jaina reaches out to grab her shoulders and direct her into the hallway. “Lesson number three of being a ranger should probably involve something about being able to see where you’re going. You could pass it on to the elves we had complaints about yesterday. Turned up in Tradewinds wearing masks and grabbing random people to wish them a good day. Very strange behaviour.”

 

  “That’sveryinterestingbutmysistermusthavesoupIshallfindthesoup,” is all Jaina catches before Alleria’s halfway down the hallway and dodging round the corner.

 

  Lireesa glares after her. “Well, eat it while it’s hot, _Lai’lune,_ ” she says, turning back to the bed. “It’s vegetable. I know how you love vegetables.”

 

  Her only response is a groan.

 

-0-0-

 

  “Hear me, o mighty Tidemother.” Scratching his neck nervously, Sanders lowers himself (slowly) to his knees, staring down over the lazy waves in the bay. Out here, beyond the maze and the hustle and bustle of Boralus, even the shouting and banging within Proudmoore Keep seems dampened by the briny air. “And aye, I know I’ve taken you in vain a few times- well, your tits, anyway, and your arse, and occasionally your- I’m not even going to admit to that last one, Lady Jaina would freeze me where I stand. Kneel.”

 

  He sighs. Fiddles with the sleeve of his coat and glances back to the Keep, and the window silhouetted by a long-eared figure. “Tidemother, you’d know better’n anyone that I’m not much of a thinker. I don’t even have to think about whether I’m a thinker. The Lord Admiral told me exactly how much of a thinker I was when he told me not to tell this visitor of theirs about the explosion… look, I’m reporting in soon and I just- I just need something, Tidemother. Some way of getting back into the Proudmoores’ good books before the Lords Admiral see fit to cast me out too. Tides know I can’t go back to Fletcher’s Hollow, they’ve only just finished rebuilding the Chapel. All I was growing was carrots.”

 

  The lapping of the tide is all the answer he gets.

 

  “Anything,” Sanders sighs. “Anything at all. Grant me your wisdom.” He tips his head back down. “Tides know I don’t have Lady Jaina’s smarts, or Lady Katherine’s char- charis- clever words, or Lord Daelin’s moustache. Anything. I’d appreciate anything, o great Tidemother. I’m listening. Though you’ll have to speak quite loud, I’ve got seawater in my left ear.”

 

  And he waits.

 

-0-0-

 

  Swinging the serving tray at her side and humming idly under her breath, Alleria walks into the kitchens only to leap back out again as a frying pan goes sailing past her face.

 

  “You back for more, are you? Eh?” Crashing and banging. “You think you can waltz in here and pilfer all those pretty pastries without so much as a by-your-leave? Oh, how much I’ll love grabbing you by those long ears and dragging you to the Lord Admiral! Or maybe I’ll get Norwington to make up one of those iron suits for all of you, _then_ I’ll hear you sneaky little toads coming-”

 

  “I’m very sorry,” Alleria calls, serving tray held aloft before her face, “and honestly, more than a little afraid, but you have the wrong elf.”

 

  In the silence, she dares take a single step closer. “My name’s Alleria, I’m the eldest of the Windrunner siblings,” she offers, warily. “If you can give me any more clues as to the perpetrator, I am very happy to frogmarch any elf in here for you to discipline. In fact, it would be my pleasure. Except Sylvanas. She might sneeze on me.”

 

  “You think this is a laughing matter, do-” The door flies open and Alleria cringes back from the stout, ruddy face inches from her own, peering so closely she can see the nostrils flaring. “Oh, it’s you. The one with the weird thing on ‘er face.”

 

  “It was fashionable at the time,” Alleria mumbles. “I am here under orders of the Ranger-Matriarch, as regards your generous offering for my sister the Ranger-General’s convalescence. She, and my sister, deliver their most sincere compliments on your delectable cuisine and would entreat you to repeat the favour.” And she drops into as deep a bow as she dares, keeping one eye on the frying pan. “My lady.”

 

  The chef squints at her.

 

  “More soup. They would like more vegetable soup.” The grip on the frying pan tightens. “My lady,” she adds quickly.

 

  “Well, why didn’t you say so!” The pan goes clattering back across the work surface as the chef grabs Alleria by the wrist and hauls her forwards, ignoring her squeak of protest. “I’m snowed under preparing food for some important someone or another, so you can be my right hand elf. Apron’s by the door. Wash your hands thoroughly- _thoroughly,_ look at the grime under your nails, anyone would think you’d been wrestling a sheep. Doesn’t half have a pair of lungs on her, does she, your sister? I thought the Lady Jaina had exploded another boiling pot. Come on, those carrots aren’t going to peel themselves!” And she dumps a pile of vegetables in Alleria’s sudsy hands.

 

  Glancing nervously around, Alleria reaches warily for what she assumes is a peeling knife. “Whilst I am always happy to help, might I volunteer a more… capable… elf than I to aid you?” She lifts her mutilated carrot into the air and squints at the sliver of vegetable left. “One who doesn’t have a habit of burning salad?” she adds, timidly.

 

  “These are vegetables. Not even Derek Proudmoore could screw this up.” The chef pauses. “Well. Hmm.”

 

  Sighing through her nose, Alleria grabs a head of broccoli and snaps it in two. “Consider this fair warning: I can, and have, painted an entire room with chutney. Including the ceiling. And my Minn’da.”

 

  “You just needed a lot of cheese and crackers.”

 

  “Still not as bad as Minn’da’s battered fish.”

 

  “Rubbery?”

 

  “Rubbery? She’d kicked the _menoor_ out of it. Rubbery was the least of its problems.”

 

  “I’d pray to your sun lady she never tries to smoke anything- _what in the name of the Tidemother’s briny arse cheeks are you doing to that broccoli?_ ” And Alleria is bowled backwards by the chef grabbing frantically for her smouldering florets. “Not _in_ the fire!”

 

  “Oh,” Alleria mumbles.

 

  Frantically fanning the charred vegetables with a tea towel, the chef regards her with a stony face. “Washing up?”

 

  “If you can believe it, she’s even worse at that,” a kitchen cupboard supplies, and Alleria yanks it open to Vereesa, curled around a plate of pastry crumbs. “… Oops.”

 

  The chef growls in the back of her throat.

 

  “Best of luck with the soup!” Vereesa chirrups, and dives through into the next cupboard as the chef grabs a pair of tongs and charges forwards-

 

  _PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA PAAAA!_

 

  Alleria’s still clutching her ears as five trumpets are lowered and the closest of the five elves stood to attention in the doorway slaps his hand across his chest. “Our glorious Crown Prince, Kael’thas of the Most Magnificent House Sunstrider!” he bellows, and shoves the others backwards as a faintly-glowing figure approaches. “Here to grace us with His most royal radiance! I present to you, His Majesty!”

 

  “You have to be kidding me,” Alleria mutters. “Lirath had to lend him some underpants on the journey, yet he remembered to pack the royal herald?”

 

  The chef stands frozen, still brandishing her tongs, as Kael’thas Sunstrider wriggles himself and the three flaming orbs atop his shoulder pieces past the cluster of trumpeters. “Alleria!” His teeth glint in the too-bright smile he flashes her. “How glad I am to see you again!” He glances from her to the pile of burnt broccoli and back. “I was just looking for the Lord Admirals’ rooms, to introduce myself to them and extend my gratitude for their marvellous hospitality.”

 

  There’s a pause.

 

  “This is a kitchen,” the chef says.

 

  “Well, I can see that now.” Gingerly, Kael’thas taps one of the fiery orbs back into place. “It’s good to see you looking so well, Alleria.” His voice lowers, just a little. “And what wonderful news, for Sylvanas to be found fit and well- for all our differences, I cannot fault how much my father admires her skill and dedication.” He straightens, beaming. “Though of course, my ann’da will now have the difficult job mopping up the rest of the undead vermin, and our people will once again owe him a great debt for his selfless dedication! Hopefully it won’t be too long before we can return to Quel’Thalas and congratulate our glorious King on a job well done!”

 

  One of the heralds catches Alleria’s eye and shakes his head once.

 

  Striding forwards, Kael’thas swipes a strand of silky hair from his face with a faintly trembling hand. “Yes, how wonderful that your… dear… sister was fished up with such alacrity. Did you never tell her of my incredible capability as a spellcaster? You were always so encouraging of me. If only she had not interrupted me as I fought to take control of that great storm, we could have been ashore so much sooner- but we are where we are. And they do magnificent pastries.” He dodges past her, tugs a cupboard door open and grabs the last pastry off the plate in Vereesa’s lap, ignoring her squeak of protest. “Mmmm. Beautiful.” He holds it aloft as though toasting Alleria. “I will learn to conjure them just as well as this. Ann’da will adore how flaky and buttery they are. How did you say Sylvanas is doing again?”

 

  “Sylvanas and her sneezes are being kept a safe distance from small children.” A rational elf might take pity on him and the delusions he’s wrapping himself in like a silk shawl from the Fairbreeze market. Might look sympathetically on the deranged glint in his eye, and the subtle shake of his silk-gloved fingers. But Alleria can smell the brine of the waves crashing about the _Anasterian’s Grace_ , can hear the sickening thud of wood against head, can feel the rasp of the sodden sails whipping at her back as she flings herself to the railing where her sister tumbled out of sight- “Come to think of it, Kael, speaking of debts, I do believe that I owe you one as well.”

 

  Kael’thas’s eyebrows rise. “Oh?”

 

  And Alleria socks him straight in the nose.

 

  “That,” she hisses, drawing her fist back again, “is for risking all of our lives for your pathetic attempt at sorcery, you greenling parlour-trick peddler.”

 

  “Dab was by-”

 

  _SMACK!_

“And that’s for Sylvanas,” she snarls, and strides past him, shaking her throbbing fingers.

 

  “Alleria! Wait for me!” cries the cupboard under the sink, and Vereesa bursts forth in a flurry of crumbs. “When did he get here, anyway? I was keeping that pastry for a special someone!”

 

  Turning on her heel, Alleria raises an eyebrow. “I’m flattered, sister.”

 

  “I meant me, but later on.”

 

  Nursing his nose, Kael’thas peers at her through his fingers. “Dib you seriously nod hear dem?” He jerks a hand back towards the cluster of trumpets as he straightens up, sniffing. “Dey were quite loub.”

 

  Vereesa squints at him. “I think you might have a bruise on your face, Prince Kael’thas.”

 

  “Do I-”

 

  _SMACK._

 

  “My mistake. Now you definitely have a bruise on your face.” And Vereesa dodges past the cowering heralds and storms back in the direction of their family’s chambers.

 

  “Would you like us to announce your departure, Prince Kael’thas?” one of them ventures, timidly.

 

  “Yeb blease,” Kael’thas mumbles, and shambles away behind the cacophony heading down the next passageway.

 

-0-0-

 

  “I have close on five hundred years’ worth of experience on the field of battle. My Farstriders were and are the envy of the Eastern Kingdoms, with the strength, wit and cunning to best any force known to Azeroth, and their mere name sent frissons of fear through any cur foolish enough to stand against Quel’Thalas and her allies.” How Lireesa can seem so composed brandishing a spoonful of soup at her daughter like a lethal weapon, Jaina doesn’t know. “The title of Ranger-Matriarch is not for show, neither is it for sentimentality. My title was- _stop moving your head-_ earned through blood and tireless strategising-” They’re grappling for the spoon now, fumbling for dominance. “And the countless battles fought and won against our foes-”

 

  She scrabbles to jab the thermometer into Sylvanas’s ribs but before she can reach Sylvanas tugs her off-balance and wrestles the spoon from her fingers with a hiss of triumph.

 

  “And none of it,” Lireesa finishes, wearily, “could prepare me for dealing with Sylvanas when she’s sick.”

 

  “I doubt there’s an elf alive who could,” Sylvanas supplies helpfully, half-muffled into the pillow. “Especially not when I’m armed.” And she thrusts the spoon up in what Jaina assumes was meant to be a threatening gesture.

 

  Sliding the bowl of soup back onto the table, Lireesa glares down at her. “Honestly, Ranger-General. Squirming and whining like a spoilt elfling over a mouthful of soup. What would Talanas say if he could see you now?”

 

  “Nothing, he’s dead.”

 

  “Are you truly so ill that you won’t even take a single sip? I have a priestess and I’m not afraid to use her. She’s waited long enough to exact her vengeance for the frog prank.” Lireesa’s lips thin at the snigger that Sylvanas quickly disguises as a cough. “I’m glad you were amused. Do you have any idea how embarrassing it was to try to explain to Prince Kael’thas why the War Room was croaking?”

 

  “Maybe you would’ve done better explaining to the vain old fool that he has no place meddling in our War Room.” Even nasal and congested as her voice is, the disdain in Sylvanas’s tone is palpable. “Remind him he belongs on his little gold throne and _not_ in the military’s chambers.”

 

  “Is there any authority figure you have any respect for?”

 

  “Well, as long as you count the Ranger-General of Silvermoon as an authority figure.”

 

  Lireesa pinches the bridge of her nose. “Anybody except for-”

 

  “Kael’thas!” And Jaina is bowled out of the way once again by Vereesa, skittering past in a whirl of pastry crumbs. “In the kitchens!”

 

  Sylvanas groans under her breath. “ _Anar’alah,_ he’s a worse cook than Alleria. We should all take cover while we still can.”

 

  “No, he’s gone to see the Lords Admiral.” Vereesa glances to Jaina. “If they need to find a quiet place to scream afterwards, Lady Proudmoore, I volunteer my chambers.”

 

  Jaina returns her soft smile. “My mother has a brand new bottle of rum in her desk just for such emergencies. My father has two bottles hidden under the emergency bullhorn on the cabinet-”

 

  “Wait!” They all startle round at Sylvanas’s hoarse cry as she struggles upright. “Jaina…? How long have you been there?”

 

  “I suppose I’ll wait to ask why your parents have an emergency bullhorn,” Lireesa mumbles.

 

  Jaina’s brow furrows. “A couple of hours, Sylvanas. You… didn’t know I was here?” She takes a tentative step closer, and another, sinking down to perch on the foot of the bed. “You didn’t hear me?”

 

  Lireesa snorts. “Who did you think I was talking to, Sylvanas?”

 

  “I thought you were just doing a dramatic monologue like you usually do.”

 

  “You thought I was-?” Lireesa draws herself up, huffing. “I am the Ranger-Matriarch of all of Quel’Thalas, the tip of the quel’dorei spear and the sharpest point of the quel’dorei arrow and the defiance of the quel’dorei shield, I have laboured my fingers to the bone and crushed my feet within their boots and thrown myself before blade and claw to protect my people- and my own children, the children I birthed and hauled into adulthood and who turned the last of my hair to silver, dare to be so impudent with me as to tell me I am prone to _dramatic monologues?_ ”

 

  Vereesa merely raises an eyebrow.

 

  “That was a dramatic monologue, wasn’t it,” Lireesa mumbles.

 

  Frowning, Jaina reaches out to touch the back of her palm to Sylvanas’s hot cheek. “And I thought you seemed a little bit better, when you were fighting over the spoon. I haven’t seen such quick evasive manoeuvres since the day we introduced Tandred to sprouts.”

 

  The skin beneath her fingers flushes even further, blooming up to the tips of two drooping ears as, eyes fixed to the mattress, Sylvanas shoves herself up into a sitting position and picks the bowl of soup up from the table. “Mm. Vegetable. I am sure this will make me better,” she forces out, and- face screwed up in revulsion- dunks the spoon in and shoves it just as quickly into her mouth. “Delicious,” she mumbles. “Your cook is truly marvellous.”

 

  Lireesa rolls her eyes and tosses the thermometer over her shoulder and out of the window.

 

-0-0-

 

  “O great and generous Tidemother.” Sanders tips his head forwards, hands clasped in front of his podge. “Once again, and it’s been quite a few times now, if you see fit to bestow your graciousness upon me and aid me in my plight-”

 

  And blinks as something bounces off the back of his head.

 

  “Eh?” He scrambles in the grass and holds it up to the sun, squinting. “A thermometer? I mean, it’s not quite what I was expecting, but thank you Tidemother! I will use this to carry out your purpose- whatever purpose this is for, I suppose… You have a lovely afternoon now! Hope it goes swimmingly! Get it? Yeah, that was bad. Even for Lord Daelin. Sorry.”

 

  And he scrambles to his feet and meanders back towards the Keep, whistling idly through his teeth-

 

  _PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA PAAAA!_

 

-0-0-

 

  “Oh good,” Daelin says, rubbing his ear as he hauls a glassy-eyed Tandred back onto his chair with the other hand. “The elves’ prince has arrived.”

 

  “PARDON?” Katherine yells beside him.

 

  The door clatters open before a small gaggle of brightly-dressed elves, clutching their trumpets to their chests. “Our glorious Crown Prince, Kael’thas of the Most Magnificent House Sunstrider!” one yells, and the others quickly step aside. “Here to grace us with His most royal radiance, and some other stuff about how wonderful he is, I present to you, His Majesty.”

 

  “There could have been a bit more enthusiasm there, Kelmarin,” the figure at the back snaps.

 

  “In fairness,” another elf says, rubbing his forehead, “he’s had to do that six times now.”

 

  “There are a lot of rooms and I occasionally announced myself to the wrong one. Now shut up.” And an elf with flaxen blond hair, a very bruised nose and three flaming orbs at his shoulders barges his way through, marches up to Daelin and Katherine and bows deeply. “Bal’a dash, Lord and Lady Proudmoore of Kul Tiras. My name is Prince Kael’thas Sunstrider, Crown Regent to the Glorious Kingdom of Quel’Thalas. I apologise that it has taken me so long to come and introduce myself-”

 

  “CHARMED,” a glassy-eyed Katherine hollers, holding her hand out. “WELCOME TO KUL TIRAS. WHY IS YOUR NOSE PURPLE?”

 

  Kael’thas slowly reaches out and takes it, only to lurch forwards at the enthusiastic pump Katherine gives it. “Erm, thank you. Lord Daelin! My gratitude for giving my people land and security, while we recover and rebuild. And how fortuitous that you have already found use for some of our Farstriders.” He jabs a hand back at the doorway, where Lireesa is whispering frantically with the heralds. “I’m sure the Ranger-Matriarch has been a… suitable leader in my, erm, absence?”

 

  “Yes, of course.” Daelin spares her a smile, one that falters at the anxious glance it gets in response. “And I extend my people’s heartfelt sympathies to yourself, of course.”

 

  “Sympathies?” Kael’thas blinks, but just as quickly plasters his great beam back on again. “I suppose we did lose quite a few of the border guards in that little skirmish with the undead, did we not, Lireesa?” She opens her mouth only for Kael’thas to continue, sweeping his arm out theatrically. “But with his skill and talent, honed over thousands of years of combat and magical study, no doubt my father will have everything under control by now! He is a truly fine fighter. No sorcerer more powerful in all of the Eastern Kingdoms. Perhaps all of Kalimdor as well.”

 

  Lireesa catches his eye and shakes her head slowly. _He didn’t believe them when they told him what happened to his father,_ she mouths.

 

  Daelin swallows. Just for a moment, the plush bearskin rug beneath his boots sways like the deck of the _Lady Katherine._ Jaina’s briny hair whips at his chin as they both lean over a crumpled little figure, half-hidden beneath a pile of sodden sail. _Anasterian… bought us time._ Voice weak and breathless, struggling to force numb lips into unfamiliar words. _Our King sacrificed himself f-for us… for us to run._

 

  “But I thought your father expl-”

 

  “Yes,” Daelin says quickly, delivering a sharp kick to Tandred’s ankle. “I’m sure.”

 

  Kael’thas hums in agreement. “And how fares his prize flagship? The _Grace?_ Beautiful vessel. Nothing could bring a piece of engineering like that down!”

 

  Daelin and Lireesa exchange an uneasy glance.

 

  “Erm,” Tandred begins.

 

  “Well,” Daelin mumbles, shuffling from one foot to the other. “You see. Actually. The _Grace-_ ”

 

  “Got blown up,” supplies a helpful voice from the doorway, where a slightly ruffled Sanders is stood staring at the elven heralds. “Could’ve happened to anyone. Lord Admiral, have you seen how pretty these elves’ clothing is?” He reaches out to toy with an overly-elaborate red and gold tassel; the elf attached to it stiffens. “They look like Lady Sylvanas, when Jaina fished her up! But drier.”

 

  Daelin swallows, hard. Tugs at his collar with two fingers, and quickly forces a chuckle in Prince Kael’thas’s direction. “Would you give me two moments, your Highness? My most sincere thanks.” And in two strides he’s across the room to grab Sanders by the shoulders and haul him closer.

 

  “Do you remember,” he hisses, lips an inch from Sanders’ ear, “the thing I told you this morning _not_ to mention in front of the elves’ prince? Under any circumstances?”

 

  “Sorry, Lord Admiral, I’ve got seawater in my left ear.”

 

  Daelin twists him round and grabs the other ear. “ _Do you remember the thing I told you this morning not to mention in front of the elves’ prince under any circumstances?”_

 

  “Sorry, Lord Admiral, there’s seawater in that one too.”

 

  He turns on his heel to grab the bullhorn from the cabinet and points it straight at Sanders’ face. “DO YOU REMEMBER,” he hollers, as the elves in the doorway yelp and slam their hands over their ears, “THE THING I TOLD YOU THIS MORNING NOT TO MENTION IN FRONT OF THE ELVES’ PRINCE UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, FIRST MATE SANDERS?”

 

  “Oh! The bit about us blowing their ship up!” Sanders beams. “Yes, Lord Admiral! See, I remembered.”

 

  In the silence, the only sound is the _thwap_ as Daelin lets his head falls into his hands.

 

  “I’m sorry, Lord Admiral,” Kael’thas starts, brows tightly pursed. “You did _what_ to my ship?”

 

-0-0-

 

  “Hey,” Jaina whispers.

 

  Sylvanas opens one eye. “ _Bal’a dash,_ Jaina,” she murmurs, through a throat that no longer aches with irritation. Her limbs are heavy with fatigue, but her thoughts are clearer, free of the confusion and fear that had driven her deeper and deeper into the soft bedclothes until she could burrow no further. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

 

  The blankets are dragged down and Sylvanas feels something fluffy and subtly enchanted wrapped around her shoulders in their place. “The colour is back in your cheeks.” Cool fingers press to her face, and Sylvanas is caught by the urge to turn her head and press her lips to them. “While everyone’s distracted by your prince and his marching band, I thought I might show you a little something. Do you feel steady enough to walk?”

 

  “I do… what is this you have enchanted so skilfully?” She pushes herself carefully upright, feeling for the cloak Jaina is busy tying at her throat. “It’s… warm.”

 

  “I went and looked up some enchantments. Found one designed to keep the wearer warm and cosy at all times. If anybody asks what the slightly singed pile in the courtyard is, that was the first attempt, but this time- I got it just right.” And Sylvanas, _Belore_ help her, nearly _purrs_ as Jaina gently and painstakingly gathers her hair forwards and pulls the hood up over her head. “Your boots are by your feet. No need to rush, I’m sure they will all be engaged in their discussion for quite some time yet. Tides, I’m glad they didn’t ask me to go along. It must be so boring in there.”

 

-0-0-

 

  “WHAT DO YOU MEAN, THE WHOLE THING EXPLODED? HOW? IF I WEREN’T SO ANGRY, I WOULD BE IMPRESSED!”

 

  “Kul Tiras accepts responsibility for the unfortunate accident involving your ship, and the cabbage-brain who caused it.” Daelin fixes Sanders with a rather withering glare. “Construction of a new one is well underway-”

 

  “Don’t want another ship. Want my ship.”

 

  There’s a pause. Kael’thas blinks. “That is to say, I appreciate your efforts, but I would rather have my own vessel restored to full working order,” he mutters, and quickly clears his throat. “The finest of elven craft, and thus the only ship in the Thalassian fleet fit to be named after my ann’da. He will be most disappointed.”

 

  “Somehow I don’t think he will,” Tandred mumbles, and yelps as Daelin’s boot connects with his shin.

 

  “In my defence, Lord Admiral.” Sanders keeps his gaze firmly fixed on his own feet as he speaks. “You never even said anything about thumbs, so I had to work that bit out on my own, and by the time I’d done that bit, I’d already blown it up.”

 

  “So a joint effort,” Kael’thas says, coldly. “Between yourself and the Lord Admiral.” He sniffs, straightening his shoulders. “Unclear leadership and incompetent, stupid underlings, _Belore,_ no wonder you get on so well with the Windrunners.”

 

  Daelin stiffens. Tandred sucks in an angry breath.

 

  Beside him, Sanders goes very still.

 

  “I don’t believe I follow,” Daelin says, slowly. Too evenly. “And though I will accept your criticism of my part in this accident, I would warn you against using such language when referring to a family who have stepped up without a word of complaint to lead your people in your stead, and freely given valuable aid to the Kul Tiran people.”

 

  Kael’thas laughs. There’s no mirth in the sound. “Yes, between you and me, Lireesa does give her Farstriders rather… _freely._ After all.” He bares his teeth in the palest approximation of a smile. “It isn’t her who must put pen to paper when someone’s beloved child charges to their death on her battlefield, is it? But I do what I must. _For Quel’Thalas._ ” He lifts his chin and glares down at them. “And as for her vain whelp of a daughter,” he spits, fists clenching, “Sylvanas would sooner be performing trick shots for her sluts in Windrunner Village than fighting for her-”

 

  _THWAP._

 

  Every eye in the room is drawn, as one, to Sanders’ glove on the floor before Prince Kael’thas.

 

  “You can insult me all you like,” Sanders says, voice low. He takes a step closer. “I do it all the time. So does everybody else. But you do not- however royal or titled or whiny you are- insult the Lady Sylvanas in my hearing.”

 

  For a moment, there is silence.

 

  Until Kael’thas sniggers, throwing his arms out wide. “Look at this, the bumbling innumerate wishes for me to teach him some manners! This is actually _funny!_ Look at him, like this sack of briny lard could so much as touch me!” He leans closer, lips curled in a sneer. “Your Lady Sylvanas,” he hisses, “stood in my court, her mother at her side, and sought to ply Kul Tiras with goods to buy your soldiers for use as cannon-fodder instead of her own-”

 

  He staggers backwards with a yelp as a thermometer bounces off his eyeball, tripping over his own cloak and collapsing to the ground in a tangle of limbs.

 

  “I warned you,” Sanders says, thin-lipped.

 

  Thrashing to his feet, Kael’thas glares with the eye not covered by both hands. “You will come to regret that,” he mutters, and shoves past Daelin to storm out of the room with his head held high. “HERALD!”

 

  The elves in the doorway glance at each other and drag themselves along behind him, trumpeting miserably down the corridor.

 

  Humming under his breath, Sanders bends to scoop the thermometer back up. “Thank you, Tidemother, that was rather useful after all,” he chirps, and shoves it back into his pocket.

 

  “Sanders.” Exhaling a long breath, Daelin pinches the bridge of his nose. “What have I told you about throwing thermometers at nobles?”

 

  “Only bad first mates throw thermometers at nobles,” Sanders mumbles. “But Lord Daelin, I couldn’t stand by and listen to that, I just couldn’t, not when he was being so cruel about-”

 

  “Take the rest of the day off.” Sanders blinks. “Go to Tradewinds and buy yourself something hearty to eat. Tell them it’s on the Lord Admiral’s money. I’ll see you back here tomorrow. Dismissed.”

 

  Sanders’ face breaks into an enormous beam. “Thank you, Lord Admiral!” he cries, and snaps into a salute. “Until tomorrow, Lord Admiral!” And he bounds out of the room, warbling cheerfully to himself.

 

  “I think that went well,” Tandred ventures, timidly.

 

  Daelin glances to the rum set atop the cabinet, sighs, collapses into his chair and tugs the top drawer of his desk open to withdraw two further bottles of rum.

 

  “DID SOMETHING HAPPEN?” Katherine hollers.

 

-0-0-

 

  “Mind your step!” Sylvanas can hear the smile in Jaina’s voice as she’s gently guided along in her arms. “Don’t look up just yet!”

 

  “I won’t.”

 

  The air is crisp and fresh with the scents of star moss and winter’s kiss. Jaina’s hair brushes her nose as she leans closer, giggling softly. “You didn’t have to close your eyes completely!”

 

  “Then I am not tempted to peek.”

 

  “You are putting a lot of trust in me, Sylvanas.”

 

  “It is not misplaced, I’m sure.”

 

  There’s a pause, as Sylvanas is manoeuvred around a thicket of what feels like zin’anthid. “No,” Jaina murmurs, and those soft, cool fingers brush a lock of hair back from Sylvanas’s face. “It is not.”

 

  Sylvanas’s lips curl into a smile.

 

  “Here we are!” Jaina sounds near giddy with excitement. The hood is carefully guided up over her ears and falls onto her back. “Are you ready?”

 

  “Yes.”

 

  “Three- two- _one!_ ”

 

  She opens her eyes-

 

  And her mouth falls open at the blaze of colour before her, peacebloom and siren’s pollen and bright yellow tulips and bushes thick with roses of all shades. The grass is freshly-cut and glittering with dew and the lawn stretches fifty paces and more, up to an archery target ringed in Thalassian colours and a training dummy so crisp and new wood-dust still clings to the grain.

 

  “Do you like it?” Jaina breathes, clutching her arm.

 

  It is beautiful.

 

  For a moment, Sylvanas cannot breathe. Cannot move. Her fingers clutch desperately at Jaina’s as her vision starts to swim.

 

   _Peacebloom,_ she hears Vogel say. _The scent is divine. Tulips, to celebrate new life in the spring. Roses… for you to wear behind your ear, my beautiful Lai’lune. Be mindful of the thorns now. Sturdy flowers. Tough. Like you._

 

  “I- Lady Proudmoore-”

 

  “CONGRATULATIONS!” They’re both showered in confetti as Lirath leaps out from behind a rose bush, pelting them with brightly-coloured paper. “Finally, _finally,_ you- wait, Sylvanas, are you crying? That’s not what she was meant to be doing! _Belore,_ Jaina, how bad a kisser are you?”

 

  “ _Shut up, Lirath._ ” Sylvanas feels the rumble of the words as she clings desperately to Jaina, face pressed to the crook of her neck. “Oh, Sylvanas, I’m so sorry.” A gentle hand strokes her hair, down to rub her back in long, soothing strokes. “Did I do something wrong? Talk to me, Sylvanas. I never intended to upset you. I’m sorry.”

 

  She forces herself to suck in a long, shuddering breath. “It’s beautiful,” she whispers against Jaina’s pulse point. “Truly beautiful. You have gone to such pains, Jaina, for me… I am merely… a little overwhelmed to see all the flowers my ann’da so loved, grown so lovingly. Like…”

 

  “Like he himself would have,” Jaina finishes for her, voice soft. “Your siblings helped me to find the plants your father held dear. I can always find other flowers-”

 

  “ _No._ ” She pulls herself away to look Jaina in the eyes. “It is perfect,” she murmurs. “What better way to honour my father than to fill our new home with his favourite blooms? I will adore spending time here. And I hope you will join me in admiring your own creation, from time to time.”

 

  Jaina beams, reaching up to stroke a tear from Sylvanas’s cheek. “I will make sure that I spend a lot of time out here.” Caresses Sylvanas’s jaw with the pad of her thumb, sending a shiver through her. “With such beauty to gaze upon.” Leans a little closer. “And the garden too.”

 

  “What do you-”

 

  Her eyes fall closed as Jaina’s lips press to hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still here!
> 
> I am so sorry this chapter took so long. Between Blizzcon, work, raiding, everything else... but I will be sure to get the next chapter out a bit quicker than this one.
> 
> Also:  
> -Have fixed a couple of things- Sylvanas is no longer taller than Daelin and Lireesa no longer refers to her as her 'eldest' daughter  
> -Sorry this chapter was a little more serious, but... so will the next chapter be. There's only so long Sylv and co can distract themselves and not think about what has happened to their homeland.  
> -I actually wrote the punching before 8.3 and Anduin's magnificent right hook but clearly Blizzard loved the idea so much they copied it. Clearly. Obviously.
> 
> I really hope you enjoyed and any and all feedback is greatly appreciated :D


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